Evanescent Genesis
by LoveGaara06
Summary: America is dead. England suffers through the loss of his best friend, unable to fix himself. What was he supposed to do without him? How would he live? He didnt know & now everything was falling into hell. Would he ever drag himself out of this hell hole?
1. February Song

**Hetalia: Axis Powers and all its characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya, I do not own it in anyway. Any political leaders that ay be mentioned in this fanfiction are all fictional characters and have never, and will never, exist in real life. Everything that takes place in this fanfiction is strictly fictional.**

**This fanfiction will have new lyrics for every chapter. You may listen to the song if you wish, because all the lyrics are matched up with the chapter as best as possible, if you do not have to listen to the song to make the story more emotional.**

**This fanfiction may consist of emotional triggers for some. If you are one who will be triggered by depression I warn you now.**

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><p>"Where has that old friend gone?<br>Lost in a February song  
>Tell him it wont be long<br>till he opens his eyes  
>Opens his eyes. . .<p>

Where is that simple day?  
>Before colors broke into shades<br>and how did I ever fade into this life?  
>Into this life?<p>

And I never want to let you down  
>Forgive me if I slip away<br>When all that I've known is lost and found  
>I promise you, I<br>I'll come back to you one day

Morning is waking up  
>And sometimes its more then just enough<br>And all that you need to love  
>Is in front of your eyes<p>

In front of your eyes

And I never want to let you down  
>Forgive me if I slip away<br>Sometimes its hard to find my ground  
>Cause I keep on falling as Im trying to get away<br>From this crazy world

And I never want to let you down  
>Forgive me if I slip away<br>And all that I've know is lost and found  
>I promise you I<br>I'll come back to you one day

Where has that old friend gone?  
>Lost in a February song<br>Tell him it wont be long  
>till he opens his eyes<p>

Opens his eyes. . ."

~_February Song_ – Josh Groban

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><p>"Hum! La~ La~"<p>

The Englishman took his time cooking his lunch as he played the radio to keep his house from being oddly silent. He nodded his head and swayed himself to the music as he poured more ingredients into the pan of food. There were no plans for today, and no work to be done. At last, a day to spend all to himself and stress free. He needed the break, and he was thankful for it.

Just as he finished cooking and was about to sit down, the doorbell rang. The Englishman rolled his eyes and set his food down, beginning to make his way to the door.

"Why the bloody hell is anyone here?" He grumbled to himself, "God, it better not be Alfred or else he's going to get the shit beat out of him. I specifically told him _not_ to visit!"

The doorbell ran again, and only a few seconds later again, and again, and again. When Arthur finally reached the door he knew for a fact who it was and was almost ready to rip his head off; throwing the door open and his teeth gritted in anger.

"Alfred!" Arthur screamed, "If you so much as _touch_ that door chime again I will kick your bloody arse back to Hawaii!"

The American stood in the Brits doorway with multiple bags, his finger almost touching the doorbell. He slowly moved his hand from the door and put it back at his side, his lips stuck out in shock of the sudden burst of anger. Looking around for a few seconds, Alfred set his eyes back on the emerald eyed man and grinned, "Hi, Iggy!"

Arthur sighed, "Hello, Alfred. . ." He stood beside the door, holding it open as he let the American enter. Once he was inside he closed the door behind them and crossed his arms, watching Alfred set down his bags and take off his shoes and bomber jacket; which he set on the table by the door, "Why are you here? Didn't I tell you not to come?"

Alfred laughed and walked into the living room, "Because I was still here!" He glanced at the Brit and smiled, "I was bored and had nothing else to do. I would have been stuck at a hotel all day waiting for my plane. Dude, I'm gonna have some serious jet lag when I get back!" He laughed.

"Your fault for picking such a time to go back," Arthur said, rolling his eyes and leaning himself against one of the living room walls

"What?" Alfred grinned, "I have to go to a meeting today back home and if I left too early I would fall asleep when I got back and not get up again!"

"Tsk." Arthur shook his head, "I don't understand you sometimes."

"Love you too, Iggy~!" The dirty blond said cheerfully.

The Englishman sighed again and turned to his kitchen, "Since you're here, would you like some tea or food? I had just finished making lunch for myself and everything is still out."

"Uh..." Alfred looked around nervously, "I'm, uh, fine on food! Thanks anyways."

Arthur raised an eyebrow and looked at him, "You? Not hungry? Ha! Liar. I bet you just don't want to eat my food, just like everyone else!"

Alfred rubbed the back of his head, "Haha... I... Uh... Yeah... Kinda... But you can't blame me! No one wants to eat it."

Arthur huffed and headed back into his kitchen, "Fine then. You're not getting any sort of food from me for a long while. I might as well at least offer the tea again. Do you want any?"

The American pondered over this for a moment then perked up and raised a finger, "Do you happen to have any that has a good taste and has caffeine?"

"I have plenty with caffeine. As for it tasting good, that's up to you."

Alfred followed the Brit into the kitchen and watched over his shoulder as he began putting away the ingredients he had had out. He then began taking out everything to make him, and his surprise guest, a cup of tea. The teen gave up on watching and propped himself up against one of the counters, watching the Englishman from the corner of his eye as he began pouring water into a kettle.

After Arthur set the water out to let it heat he looked up and began walking towards the hallway, "I'll be right back. Don't destroy anything, got it?" he glared harshly at the teen.

Alfred laughed loudly then waved to his friend, "Yeah, yeah I got it!"

The Englishman stared for another few moments, then rolled his eyes. He walked out of the room and down the halls as Alfred waited behind. The American took a quick glance at the clock. 2:27. He had three hours before his plane came. Hopefully Arthur wouldn't mind him hanging with him for a while. I mean, it wasn't like he would be there _all day._ Arthur had to have understood. Besides, what's wrong with wanting to spend time with someone?

His random thoughts only lasted a few moments, but Arthur still wasn't back yet. Another glance at the clock. 2:28. Wait. 2:29. It had only been two minutes, no reason to get anxious. The kettle wasn't even screaming yet. Haha, screaming. Jeez, he laughed at the weirdest things.

Alfred repositioned himself against the counter. Another glance at the clock. 2:29 still. Man, he was getting impatient. He sighed, rubbed his eyes and looked at the hallway. Nothing. He looked back at the clock. _Still_ 2:29!

It only took a few more seconds before it turned to 2:30. Alfred rolled his eyes, "Dude. English clocks must be slow! That took foreve-"

A sudden pain shot through his heart. A sharp, agonizing pain; an unbearable pain. Alfred shoved himself off of the counter at once, gripping his heart in agony. What the hell just happened? Why did his heart hurt so bad? Why did it feel like a thousand butcher knives where slowly carving his heart out one by one? No. It felt worse than that. It felt like an electric shock that just kept building and building, burning and ripping apart his heart from the inside out.

He gasped for air and latched onto the counter in front of him in order to stop his fall. Lightheadedness, yes, things where starting to spin. What . . . What was happening? He shouldn't feel like this! A natural disaster? Was that it? In Washington D.C.? What else could it-

"Gahhhhh!" Alfred screamed, his left arm giving out on him as it felt like the veins and muscles has just exploded inside of his bicep. He fell to the ground, his head hitting the counter as he fell. Was that... Chicago? Did Chicago get hit with it too? Wait... A natural disaster wouldn't hit two cities so far away from each other. What was going on? What was happening?

Right before he hit the ground his left side felt like it had just been blown apart. He let out a shriek, his body hitting the floor at full force. All the wind had been forced out of him, but when he tried to take a breath his lungs wouldn't take all of the air. They wouldn't. At least not the one on the side that had just been hurt. Every time he took even the slightest breath all that he could feel was a dagger skinning him alive rather then the relief of breathing.

His lung... That was where Louisville, Kentucky was... Another major city? How was this possible? Three cities? How... He was certain now it was no natural disaster. No way. No fucking way. The only possibility... No... That couldn't be it. It just couldn't! How were they able to infiltrate him like this? How? _How_?

Alfred laid on his stomach, unable to turn himself around to even take the slightest pain off of himself. His vision began to blur as tears swelled up in his eyes. How could this be happening... How could it be-

"Ahhh!" Another scream. This time, his right ankle was on fire. Burning. Maybe even broken. The bones shattered. If he had looked, he would have seen it wasn't true, but it felt as though the bones were piercing through his skin. Los Angles... There was no way! But the pain told him it was true... It was... Horrible. Absolutely horrible.

By this time he was having a major difficulty breathing as more and more places on his body began to feel as though they were being torn apart from the inside out or imploding on themselves. The kettle now began whistling, the screeching drowning out Alfred's own screams. More and more pain; more and more difficulties breathing; more and more screaming. Arthur needed to hear this. If he didn't he wouldn't have known what was happening. Alfred didn't even know if he would be able to hear, but he tried. He tried as best as he could just to be able to scream out his brother's name. Just to get it out of his mouth... Just say it... Say it, Alfred... Say it. You need help. You need to call for him. Why won't you speak, damn it? Why can't you speak? Why..?

"A-Ar-th-thur!" Alfred finally shouted as loud as he could, which wasn't much being unable to catch a breath. Again and again, he screamed, his throat soar ever since Pittsburgh had been hit.

Only after a few more times of screaming, the teen had finally caught the attention of the Englishman who had been down the hall. Arthur came running at full speed, not knowing what he was going to see once he reached the kitchen with Alfred sounding that way, but he didn't think it would be anything good. He knew that much.

"Alfred!" Arthur screamed, rounding the corner of the hall and kitchen, almost slipping because of how fast he was going.

Alfred continued to gasp for breath, his lungs incapable of holding the oxygen. If this lasted much longer he might have passed out, but he struggled to stay conscious. The only thing on his mind was the safety of his people. He needed to keep his people safe.

When he caught sight of Arthur, he stretched out his hand. He couldn't stop shaking; maybe it was the pain; or maybe just the lack of energy all together that he couldn't keep his hand steady. All he knew for a fact was that he couldn't move anymore and that his innards felt like they were both imploding and exploding inside of him.

"I-Iggy..!" Alfred managed to say once more, his eyes full of fear as he stared the best he could at his friend's feet.

"My God!" Arthur yelled, slipping onto his knees and taking Alfred's head onto his lap, "What the bloody hell happened to you?" He bit his lip as he listened to Alfred groan and try to catch his breath. What was he supposed to do? He didn't know what was happening, besides that Alfred was hurt, which meant something bad was happening to the United States. What... what should he do? He hated seeing Alfred in so much pain. He _hated_ it!

"I-Iggy..." Alfred moaned, reaching up with shaky hands to grab hold of the Brit's shirt and maybe allow his lungs more room to breath, "I... c-can't..." He stopped every few seconds in order to force the air into his lungs. With how much energy he was using sweat began to accumulate on his body and rolled down his face, and the sudden explosions of pain made it worse.

"Alfred," Arthur said quickly, grabbing his friend's hand, "Don't speak. You need to focus on breathing."

"D.C..." The American continued to talk, ignoring the pleas of his former care taker, "W-what... Ha-happen... ed?"

Arthur shushed him, "Everything will be fine, Alfred. Please... Be quiet." He held him close to his chest and clasped his hand to comfort the shaking nation.

"Gah!" Another sharp pain shot through Alfred's heart, causing him to start coughing uncontrollably. His shirt was soaked with sweat and his body was trembling. "Igg-" He coughed, the feeling of his throat ripping apart scaring him, "...gy... My... P-peo..." Another mass of coughing, the taste of blood on his tongue, "People..."

The Englishman could see that things were getting worse and he needed to do something. He took Alfred and lifted him up into his arms, determined to get him up off the floor. The teen was still coughing wildly, and even though he was weak he tried his best to keep his mouth covered, placing his hand over it. The pain never ceased as Arthur quickly brought him to the living room and set him on the couch.

"It's all going to be fine, Alfred." Arthur said, the panic he had now showing in his voice. He reached for the T.V. remote, hoping that there would be news about what was happening in America. Like he expected, there was, but as soon as his eyes fell upon the sight his heart sunk deep inside of him. He took a quick glance back at his former colony. Horror was painted all over Alfred's face as he watched fires and explosions plague his cities; watched his people, filled with terror, run, scream and die; watch them being crushed under falling buildings, jumping from the burning ones, laying on the ground bleeding out; watched the smoke paint the skies of his cities black as night.

"This is..." Arthur choked, "How did this... This shouldn't..." Tears began forming in his eyes as the horror of the situation hit him. Washington D.C. was up in flames, burning to the ground, along with all other major American cities. American citizens were dying left and right. The American government was being completely destroyed. _America_ was being destroyed...

He quickly looked back to Alfred, who was still coughing and trying to take a breath. His eyes were rimmed with red and glazed over with tears. Fear gripped Alfred more then ever, he had never been this scared in his entire life. No war had ever made him feel like this. The only thing close... The only thing close was what he went through during 9/11. When he was scared out of his mind, on the verge of going insane, watching and feeling his people die, and knowing that it was caused by people who despised what he stood for.

"Al... Alfred..." Arthur stuttered, staring at his younger brother in horror as tears ran down his cheeks.

Alfred kept his eyes on him the best he could, but they always drifted to look in front of him as he began coughing again. The more he coughed the more and more blood he tasted on his tongue until the dark red liquid filled his mouth and ran down his face. His breath was hindered even more by the blood that filled his mouth, and it was completely obvious that his lungs were beginning to fill with the blood themselves. Suddenly his stomach was incapable of holding anything inside itself anymore and Alfred threw his head over the side of the couch, puking up everything. Blood spewed from his mouth. So much blood. The floor was stained red, but Alfred just kept puking up red, dark red liquid.

Arthur rushed to his side and laid him back down as soon as he finished, holding his hands tightly, "Alfred!" he yelled, his voice hoarse and choking up, "You can make it through this!" he shook his head, beads of sweat and tears flying from his face, "I know you can!" the Brit bit his lip to keep himself from crying, "You are strong! You're strong, damn it!"

The American struggled to breath, pulling as much air as he possibly could into his lungs at the same time as spiting the blood from his mouth, "Iggy... I... c-ca- Rahhhh!" He had no time to finish his sentence before his eyes began throbbing and aching to the point where he couldn't keep them open any longer. The grip he held on Arthur's hand skyrocketed as he tried to lessen the pain, if only just a little. It felt as though his eyes had just exploded, and when he opened them again all he could see was bright red staining his vision while the feeling of tears began to soak his cheeks. Though it was far from tears...

Even through the red he could still see Arthur's face, an emotion plastered on it that he hadn't seen since the Revolution. The same face that he held when he had lost Alfred all those years ago. One that showed the fear, no, the horror, of losing someone who was extremely close to you. Tears streamed down his face, unable to stop no matter how hard the Englishman tried. Alfred was dying. _Dying_, damn it!

"_Angleterre_!" the door slammed open and a sudden voice shouted through the noise, "_Angleterre_! _Amerique _is-!"

As soon as the Frenchman took a few steps into the living room he stopped dead in his tracks as his eyes laid sight of the dying country. Why was Alfred here? Why did he have to be here when this was happening? Arthur... He wouldn't... He wouldn't be able to take it. Alfred was dying _right_ _in front_ of Arthur's eyes!

"You're strong!" the Brit screamed, gripping tighter and tighter to Alfred's large hands, "_Strong_, damn it, Alfred! You can't die! You can't! You are America, damn it! The United States of America! The fucking world power! You can't fucking die!"

Alfred had no strength left to speak, none. There was no way he could talk, no way that he could tell Arthur anything that was going through his mind. He was too weak. No matter how much he wanted to, there was no way he would be able to get out any words. The oxygen in his lungs was being slowly pushed out by the blood that misplaced it, and there was nothing he could do.

"Alfred," Arthur continued to scream, the tears never ceasing, "God damn it, please, Alfred! Please... You... You cannot..." His head slowly fell onto Alfred's hands, and Arthur's tears warmed his skin, "How... This... This isn't happening..." He suddenly looked up again and into the American's glossy eyes, "Alfred, Alfred, I'm sorry! I'm sorry, damn it. I'm so sorry! I... I can't... I didn't... Please, please hear this. I'm so sorry, damn it! I'm sorry for everything. I'm sorry for my stupid arrogance that kept me from ever telling you... That kept me from telling you how much I love you. How much I still... How much I still... Love you." He bit his lip hard, almost causing blood to flow as he watched Alfred gasp even more for breath, as he slowly was losing all that he had left in him, "I love you. You're my little brother, damn it! How could I ever hate you? Please, Alfred, know that I don't hate you! I don't! I... I just... My God... I... How... How did I... I love you. I wish I hadn't been so... so damn prideful! That I would have tried... to make our relationship... what it used to be... That's... I wanted..."

Alfred gripped his former caretaker's hand slightly tighter in recognition of his words as the blood poured from his eyes and mouth while his skin slowly turned a dark gray where his major cities had once lied. Arthur continued to scream and cry, just wanting to let Alfred know all his feelings that he had kept hidden for so many centuries, "That's all I wanted, damn it! To care for you. To show you how much... I miss you. I love your laugh, your stupid new culture, your carefree nature, your love for everyone around you, your happiness... God damn it, Alfred... I miss you. I love you. I love you. Please... Please don't... You're a hero, damn it... A bloody hero... You can't-"

Alfred's breathing stopped and his hand went limp in Arthur's grip. His heart beat was gone; his life... Gone.

"You... Can't..." Arthur stuttered, trembling, staring in shock and horror at the corpse that laid before him, "Die... You... You're..." His expression suddenly turned from shock to anger and he clenched his teeth tightly together, "You're not dead, _damn it!_ You're not! You _can't_ be! You _can't_!" he grabbed hold of Alfred's limp shoulders, "Wake up, Alfred! Wake up, damn it!" He gritted his teeth as salty tears rolled down his cheeks and over his lips, "Stop playing with me. _Stop_ it! Alfred, you arsehole! _Alfred_!"

"_Angleterre_!" Francis yelled, running up and grabbing Arthur under his arms, "_Angleterre_, control yourself!"

Arthur screamed as Francis forcefully tried to drag him away from the corpse. He wailed and thrashed out at the Frenchman, trying to hit and shake him off of him, his hands still clinging to Alfred's blood stained shirt tighter and tighter the more Francis tried to move him. Screams echoed off the walls as Arthur cried and yelled at his friend. How could this have happened? There was no way it was true. Alfred couldn't be dead. He couldn't! This was all a dream. It had to be. It... Had to...

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><p><strong>Thank you for reading my fanfiction! I hope you enjoy it so far, even if it may have cause some of you to cry. Sorry about that! I seem to like to write angst.<strong>

**I would like to say now that I am not sure if I will be able to finish this or not. I will try _very_ hard, because I like the idea, but with how my other fics ended up I am a tad bit worried. I'm sure this one will end up completed, but you can never be to cautious. So, if this does just happen to stop being updated. . . Yeah. . . Sorry about that. Though, I have written ahead before I began posting, that always seems to help. So far its going well, so I will really try to update every so often. :) Just wanted to warn you guys in case that does happen! (I hope not though.)**

**Later on this fic will involve Depressed!Arthur, and Brotherly!France. And even later on(half way) is a secret~**

**Also, it seems a lot of people are confused on who exactly killed Alfred. . . That wasn't the point of the fic, and I thought I sorta hinted at it without really being blunt about it, but since it is not to focus of the fic you are free to know that my plan was for it to be terrorists and not do anything else with them because they work in secret. The point of the fic is really more to focus on Arthur's reactions to this rather than who killed him. :)**


	2. Awake

"A beautiful and blinding morning  
>The world outside<br>begins to breathe

See clouds arriving without warning  
>I need you here to shelter me<br>And I know that only time will tell us how  
>to carry on without each other<p>

give me more time  
>We cant stay like this forever,<br>but I can have you next to me  
>today<p>

If i could make these moments endless  
>If I could stop the winds of change<br>If we just keep our eyes wide open  
>Then everything would stay the same<p>

And I know that  
>Only time will tell me how<br>We'll carry on without each other  
>So keep me awake for every moment<br>And give us more time to be this way

We cant stay like this forever,  
>but I can have you next to me<br>today

We'll let tomorrow wait  
>You're here right now with me<br>and all my fears just fall away  
>and you are all I see<p>

We can't stay like this forever,  
>but I have you here today<br>And I will remember;  
>Will remember<p>

Remember all the love we share today"

~ Awake – Josh Groban

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><p>After a few minutes of constant struggling, Francis was finally able to drag Arthur from the corpse and throw him to the floor. Every time Arthur attempted to get to his feet Francis shot him down again with a harsh kick to the stomach. The Frenchman towered above him, his own eyes filled with sorrow, but they did not cry. The Brit was still screaming, still begging his brother to wake up again, but he never would. . .<p>

"Alfred! _Alfred_!" Arthur screamed his name over and over again, his eyes staring anxiously at the corpse, just waiting to see the boy open his eyes again. To open his eyes and grin wildly, like he always had, and laugh everything off as one big joke. But. . . Alfred never did. He laid there, silent and still, unmoving, limp, breathless. . . Dead.

"_Angelterre_, stop it!" Francis yelled, holding the Englishman in place against the wall, for he had managed to get up again, "He is not there, _Angelterre_! He's not!"

"You arse! Fuck you! _Fuck you,_ Alfred!" The tears never ended, they streamed down his face like waterfalls as he stretched out his hand to the body. He reached past Francis, but the Frenchman kept him from moving no matter how hard he struggled, "You're not dead, damn it! Stop being an arse! Wake up, Alfred! Get up, God damn it!"

Francis brought his hand to Arthur's face, covering his eyes quickly to keep him from looking at Alfred's dead body. The Englishman was still yelling and trembling in anger, but Francis didn't care. He had to calm him down somehow, and this was all he could think of.

"Arthur..." The name said by that voice caught him off guard for a moment, and it was a surprisingly calm voice, "Arthur, Alfred's not there. He can't hear you.. Yelling isn't going to change what happened," the more he spoke the less Arthur yelled, but moaning replaced it, "Please, Arthur. . . Try to understand this. He's gone. Gone, Arthur. Gone." He still was shaking uncontrollably, but at least the screaming has stopped, "He won't open his eyes again. Alfred is dead, Arthur. . ." the moment he heard the word '_dead_', Arthur let out a long, drawn out shriek and lost all the strength in his legs. Francis held him up for a moment longer as he finished what he was saying, "He's dead. . . I'm sorry, Arthur. . . I'm so sorry. . . But he's not coming back. . ."

Arthur fell to his knees, wailing hysterically. Francis stood above him for a few moments, looking down at him with sad eyes. He had never seen Arthur like this. Not once in his life. Even if their relationship was shown to be hateful, the Frenchman's heart just broke at the sight of such a strong nation, even once an empire, sobbing on the floor. He had never seen him so. . . Broken. . .

The Englishman's crying was making it hard for Francis to keep his own tears inside him. He bit his lip and looked away from the Brit, hoping he wouldn't cry, but how couldn't he? Alfred was one of his best friends. Of course, he hadn't been as close to him as Arthur was, that would never happen. Francis was still close to Alfred, no matter what anyone thought. He was one of his good friends. A great friend. Even his death had taken its toll on him, and he couldn't handle the twisting in his stomach any longer.

Francis covered his mouth, his eyes filling with tears. If only he could drown out the sound of Arthur's screams, maybe he wouldn't cry. . . But it was to late, the tears had already begun to flow from his eyes and run down his cheeks. What else could he have done? His heart was so heavy, his stomach so sick, his ears ringing with the screams of once the strongest nation in the world. . . Yes. . . Crying was all he could do. It was all he _wanted_ to do.

The minutes passed slowly, both men crying over their friend. Arthur had propped himself up against the wall, his knees pulled up close to his chest as he held his head and rubbed his hands through his hair and continued to wail. Francis had just stood there for who knows how long, still silently shedding tears of sorrow. It had to have been over an hour, at least.

Finally, Francis shook his head and pulled himself out of his trance. Mathew. He should call Mathew. Was he okay? Did he get hurt at all from this? The possibilities were high, but hopefully nothing had been to bad for his country. He quickly reached in his pocket for his cell phone, then took a shy glance back at Arthur, phone in hand. Arthur. . . He was still sobbing. Even now. . . After a whole hour, he was still crying just as hard, if not harder. The Brit wouldn't move his hands from his face, he wouldn't move his knees from his chest, he wouldn't move himself. All he would, and could do, was cry. Cry and cry and cry and cry. . .

Francis looked away and put the phone to his ear; having Mathew on speed dial was extremely helpful. It took a little while for the Canadian to pick up, but when a soft 'hello' came from the other side Francis's heart filled with relief.

"Mathew?" the Frenchman said anxiously, "Are you okay? You're not hurt are you?"

"Francis?" Mathew questioned, "Yes. I am fine."

"Oh, thank God." Francis let out a sigh of relief as tears filled his eyes, "Thank God. . . Thank God. . ."

The Canadian understood why he was calling; it wasn't that hard to figure out. Mathew knew that something had happened to Alfred, something bad. So the fear in Francis's voice was no surprise.

"What happened to Alfred, Francis?" Mathew asked, his voice low and soft, "Do you have any idea?"

Francis looked to the ground and shook his head, "I. . ." he glanced back at the Englishman who was still holding himself against the wall in tears, "I don't. . . I. . ."

"What is that screaming? It kind of sounds like Arthur..." Mathew's voice dropped even more, "What... What happened, Francis? Are you over at Arthur's? Where's Alfred? Why is he screaming like that?"

The Frenchman bit his lip, shook his head once more and began walking into the kitchen, his voice hushed almost to a whisper, "Mathew. . . As soon as I saw the news of what was happening. . . I ran to _Angelterre's_. . ." he rubbed his eyes as another tear ran down his face, "_Amérique_ hadn't gone back home yet from the meeting. . . He was here. . . At _Angelterre's_. . ."

Mathew stayed silent.

"_Angelterre_. . . When I got here. . . He. . . _Amérique _was. . ."

"Alfred was what?"

Francis took a few seconds to think about what to say, but the only thing he could think of was to be blunt. Blunt and to the point. The words would sting, but what else could he do? How could he bring the news lightly with Arthur crying in the background like that?

He sighed, and began to slowly speak the words, "_Amérique _is dead, Mathew. . ."

Mathew gave no reply. None. At least not for a while. It felt like minutes had passed until he spoke again.

". . .D-dead. . ?" his voice was shaking and horse; the news had hit him hard, "Alfred. . ?"

Francis grunted a sorrow-filled '_oui_'. After another few moments though, he spoke up again, his own voice now quivering as well, "Mathew. . . If you are not hurt too much. . . Could you. . . Would you be able to come to _Angelterre's_ tonight. . ? Get a flight straight to London. . ? I. . . I don't think I can handle this on my own. . . _Angelterre_ is. . . He is out of it. I don't think he can comprehend much else right now... I need help. . . I. . ."

"I can make it." the Canadian said, trying to add a cheerful tone to his voice to help keep them both stable, "I'll go get a flight right now. It shouldn't be of any issue. I'll see you in a few hours. Come straight to Arthur's house, right? No matter how late?"

"_Oui_. . . No matter how late. . ." Francis smiled slightly, "Thank you, Mathew. . . Thank you. . ."

After the conversation, Francis found himself sitting at the kitchen table. He didn't know what he was doing... Was he doing anything? He just sat there, fiddling with his hair or shaking his head. His thoughts took him over for hours upon hours. Was Alfred really dead? How did such a strong country die so easily? How were they able to infiltrate the American society like that? Why hadn't they been found out? Why was Alfred dead? How could he be?

A while later, Francis found himself on his phone looking up recent news about the situation over in the nation that had been standing just this afternoon. The information he found was shocking, and it was hard to keep his tears held back. He let a few tears roll his face, but nothing more. Besides, wasn't Arthur crying enough for the both of them? Maybe even Mathew as well?

He didn't know how long he sat there; he had began to lose track of time. Every once in a while he would get up and check on Arthur. He always stood next to the kitchen entryway that looked out over the Englishman's living room and watched him for a few moments. Just watching Arthur cry made his stomach turn.

Time passed slowly, very slowly. Every tick from the old grandfather clock that sat in the tea room could be heard, clearly echoing throughout the house, only being drowned out by the Brit's screams. Each tick seemed to get slower and slower, dragging out the time spent in this horrible day. If he could, he would just sleep it all away. Oh how he would love that. But no, he had to stay awake. He had to stay conscious to wait for Mathew and to make sure Arthur didn't do anything stupid.

The next time he checked on Arthur, the Frenchman noticed that he had managed to pull himself up off the floor. Now the Brit sat on the edge of the couch, almost sitting on Alfred's cold, lifeless body, but not quite. He was lightly stroking the American's dirty blond hair that had red blood stains soaked into some of the fine strands. Tears still streamed down his face and they dripped onto Alfred's blood-stained cheeks, warming his stone-cold visage for the last time.

The Englishman continued to moan and mumble to himself, unable to stop his tears as he looked at the corpse that laid below him. Alfred was pale, so very pale. . . The colors had quickly fled from his skin, and almost none were left. There was no heat emanating from him either. None at all. He was cold, lifeless, dead. . . Dried blood covered his face, running from his eyes down to his neck, from his mouth to his clothes. The only clear patches of skin were those where Arthur's tears had fallen.

The hours passed, and finally, late into the night, a knock came to the door. Francis jumped up from his place at the kitchen table and ran for the door. There was Mathew, and the Frenchman was anxious to see him. He opened up the door quickly, his eyes glossy with tears.

"Mathew!" Francis shouted, throwing his arms around the teen, "You are alright. . . _Merci Dieu_. . ."

Mathew smiled softly, "I'm fine, really," he hugged him back.

Francis took a deep breath, stood up and then wiped the tears from his eyes, ". . . I . . . I knew you were okay. . . But I couldn't stop worrying. . ."

The Canadian laughed, trying to lighten the mood, "It's okay. Really. I don't blame you for worrying." With that Francis let him inside. They stood by the door for a moment as Mathew took off his coat and shoes. Mathew took a quick glance into the living room where Arthur was still crying over Alfred, "How is he?"

Francis shook his head, "He's been like that for hours. . ."

Mathew looked to the floor, "He's taking it really hard, huh?"

"_Oui_. . ."Francis said sadly, making his way into the kitchen.

Mathew sat down at the kitchen table as Francis looked around the counter, "Do you want anything to drink, Mathew? Tea perhaps?"

"Oh. . . Yes, please."

The two sat there in silence, all but Arthur's screams to be heard. At first the noise made Mathew's stomach turn and tears to form in his eyes. He didn't want to cry, he didn't want to make things harder on Francis than they already were. If he was to cry. . . No. . . He wouldn't cry. Not now. Crying would only hurt Francis. He had already had to listen to Arthur for hours, he shouldn't have to listen to him as well.

"Do. . ." Mathew began hesitantly, his voice more hushed then usual, "Do you have any information on the situation in America?"

Francis looked across the table, beginning to fiddle with the cup in his hands, "Only a few things. . ." Mathew stared back at him, "Like. . . How many deaths so far. . . How many missing. . . Different cities that have been hit. . ."

"The number d-dead keeps rising." Mathew stuttered, his voice hoarse, "What. . . What was the number when you checked?"

The Frenchman's eyes stayed fixated on his tea, "Over a hundred million. . ."

Mathew bit his lips, Arthur's screams along with the conversation causing tears to prick the edges of his eyes, "Th-that. . . That number. . . It's. . . It's double that now. . ."

"Two hundred?" Francis shouted, his mouth gaping with shock, "How. . . How is that even possible? That means only around a hundred million survived!"

"That's not even including those who are missing. . ."

A silence fell over the house once more, and for the first time that evening not even Arthur was making a sound. It was an odd, eerie silence, one which could make your skin crawl. No one said a word, not one word. Maybe all of them had the same thought:

_Don't speak, don't break the silence. Pay your respects. Don't speak. Don't speak. Don't make a sound. This is his time. Be quiet. Don't speak. Think of Alfred, but don't speak. Don't utter a word. Don't speak. For Alfred. Don't speak. Not a word. Don't speak. . ._

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><p><strong>Getting pretty far in this fic~ You're at least gonna get past chapter 10 in this! Anyways, I love hearing what you guy think about this fic. It makes my day when I get a review. Just. . . Fah. I love reviews. Also, any writing tips are greatly liked! Thanks guys! 8D And yes, there is quite a bit of language in this, and sad things. . .<strong>

**Also, thank you to those of you who have review already! I thank you so much and you're part of the reason I post these fics! 8D I'm so glad you are interested in this!**


	3. Remember Me

"Remember  
>I will still be here<br>As long as you hold me  
>in your memory<p>

Remember  
>When your dreams have ended<br>time can be transcended  
>Just remember me<p>

I am the star that keeps burning so brightly  
>It is the last light to fade into the rising sun<br>I'm with you whenever you tell my story  
>For I am all I've done<p>

Remember  
>I will still be here<br>As long as you hold me  
>in your memory<br>Remember me

I am that voice in the cold wind that whispers  
>And if you listen you'll hear me call across the sky<br>As long as I still can reach out and touch you  
>Then I will never die<p>

Remember  
>I'll never leave you<br>If you are lonely  
>Remember me<p>

Remember me

Remember  
>I will still be here<br>As long as you hold me  
>in your memory<p>

Remember  
>When you dreams have ended<br>time can transcended  
>I live forever<p>

Remember me

Remember me

Remember me"

~Remember Me – Josh Groban

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><p>The next morning when Arthur awoke he was staring at a ceiling. It wasn't the living room ceiling, nor had there been any couch under his arms or carpet under his knees. In fact, he was laying in his bed, just like every morning, covered by his thick blankets and sheets. Was it all a dream? Was. . . Was Alfred's death all just a bad dream? Oh, how he longed for that to be true. Please. . . Let it have been true. It <em>had<em> to be true!

Arthur moaned and rolled over. It _was_ a dream. That's all there is to it. Alfred was to strong to be killed so easily. He rubbed his eyes and forced himself to sit up. God, he felt dead tired. Throwing the blankets off himself as he sat on the edge of the bed, he took a quick look at his clothes.

Weren't these the clothes from that dream? Why were there blood stains? Why were his own hands covered in dried blood?

Arthur bit his lip, his hands beginning to shake. It wasn't true! It couldn't be true! It was all his imagination! It had to be! He could feel himself heating up and the tears beginning to rise. No. . . No. No, no, no, no, no! Alfred's not- He couldn't be- It wasn't- How could it-

The Brit took off shooting out of his room and down the hall to the stair way. His feet pounded against the floor, one after the other, again and again, not having the slightest thought of stopping. His heart beat rapidly, his hands were shake. When he reached the stair case, he stopped only for a few seconds, glancing around the living room quickly. He took off down the stairs, stumbling over his feet and almost tripping. As soon as he reached the first floor he shot into the living room, tears trailing behind him.

"Alfred!" Arthur screamed, coming to a complete halt and grabbing hold of the American's shoulders that laid on the couch. The Brit's eyes stared at the lifeless corpse for what seemed like forever. The longer he looked, the farther his heart sank until he couldn't feel any other emotion but sorrow. Even though his eyes had forced most all of his tears back, a few still rolled down his cheeks; dripping from his chin and landing on Alfred's cold, lifeless face.

It was no dream. . . No dream at all. . . It was true. . . It was real. . . This was not his imagination. . . It was real. . . It was real. . .

Arthur choked up, bitting his lips in attempt not to cry again. He. . . He wouldn't. . .

"Ahhhhh!"

The Englishman burst into tears, pulling the teens limp body into his arms. He cried and screamed into Alfred's blood covered shoulder, holding him as tightly as his arms would let him. Arthur couldn't let go, he couldn't let Alfred out of his arms, not now. Not this time. He had to hold him close, had to let him know how much he loved him.

Sometime with in the time of Arthur's breakdown, Francis and Mathew had appeared. Mathew stood by the stairs case, trying his best not to look at his so called step-father as not to cry. Francis on the other hand slowly made his way into the living room, standing not to far behind Arthur. The Englishman had been crying for a while already, at least an hour. Both of the others thought that they should do something, try to help him somehow, and thats what they were doing.

Arthur suddenly looked up, startled by the hand that had been placed on his shoulder. It was Francis, staring back at him with half open eyes and blank expression. The tears still streamed down Arthur's face and his breathing was broken, interrupted by his multiple gasps for air at a time.

"_Angleterre_. . ." Francis began, "Come with me and Mathew. You need to get out. . . It's not good to be stuck here."

The Brit took a deep breath, his lip quivering as he shook his head, "I. . . I w-won't. . . Leave A-Alfred. . ."

"But _Angleterre_!" Francis pleaded, "You can't stay here like this!"

"Like hell I can!" Arthur screamed, shoving away Francis's hand and almost punching him in the face. He quickly turned back to look at Alfred.

My God. . . Every moment Alfred was aging, decaying. Not to long ago did he look as though he had only died a day or two ago, but now. . . Now the muscle that had once covered his body was almost gone. His bones were becoming visible beneath his skin, and his cheeks had fallen in. Alfred didn't even look like himself. He was skinny, weak, rotting away. . .

Francis didn't say another word, he only got to his feet and looked down at the corpse that still lay in Arthurs arms. In a matter of hours Alfred's body would be gone, turned to dust. Countries like themselves don't last long after death. . . Not long at all, and Francis knew he would regret it if he didn't say goodbye. But he wouldn't say it aloud, not when Arthur was still in such a state. He just stood there looking art Alfred, a speech of all the things he wanted to say running through his mind.

_'Alfred, you were a great friend. . . An amazing one. I don't know how all of this was able to happen, but I'm sorry I couldn't have been here with you. . . I wasn't as close to you as __Angleterre__, no doubt. . . But I will still miss you. . . The worlds changed since you came around, and without you here things will never be the same . . .'_

Francis sighed then looked away, beginning to walk out of the room. He then noticed that Mathew was not by the stairs anymore. The Frenchman glanced back. Mathew knew what he did, Alfred wouldn't be there much longer; and so he stood next to Arthur, just like Francis had.

Mathew stood there for at least a few minutes, listening to Arthur's cries once more. What ever he had said within his thoughts was strong enough that when mixed with the sound of weeping he too was having to force back his tears. When he turned back and started heading towards Francis he was wiping his eyes and bitting his lip, doing the best he could not to break down right there.

Francis gave the boy a soft smile and used his head to motion to the door, "Lets go," he whispered.

Mathew nodded and headed towards the door as Francis grabbed a pair of car keys. The two left the house, leaving the distressed Brit alone with the body of his closest friend and the person he considered brother. . . Alone in the silence, knowing that he would never be able to hold or see Alfred ever again when tomorrow came.

The hours passed, one by one, Alfred's corpse aging faster and faster. It wouldn't be long now until he was gone. . . Arthur was still sobbing, unwilling to let go of the Americans decaying body. As he cried he would mutter things to the corpse, just wishing Alfred could hear it.

_"I love you. . .", "I miss you. . .", "I don't hate you. . .", "For give me. . . Please. . .", "You're not a moron. . .", "Please don't go. . .", "I'm so sorry. . .", "I'm proud of you. . .", "I never wanted to hurt you. . ."_

A quarter past four pm Arthur was still holding Alfred's small body in his arms, squeezing him so tightly. Tightly. Hold him tightly. Don't let him go. He wont be in your arms much longer. . .

By this time Arthur could feel Alfred getting smaller, weaker, knowing that there were only a few minutes more to hold him that like this. His sobbing began to grow louder, his arms wrapping tighter around the Americans corpse until all his strength was concentrated there. Arthur held his head close to Alfred's his tears landing for the last time on his head.

"Please, Alfred!" Arthur screamed, "Please! You can't leave! Don't go! Please! I need you! I love you! Don't leave me! Please! _Please_!"

It was only a matter of minutes. Alfred's body had gotten to the point where it could not keep itself together any longer. Arthur screamed and screamed, continuing to beg him not to leave, but it was of no use. There was no way to stop his disappearance. Alfred would turn to dust, never to be seen again.

Arthur kept trying to hold Alfred tighter and tighter, weeping, screaming, yelling, pleading. And it was then when his arms were no longer around another body. Alfred's glasses dropped to the floor, making a loud echo throughout the house. He gasped, frozen, staring out into space as the tears streamed down his face. The Englishman no longer held the American close to him, rather his hands had fallen to his chest, holding tightly only to the cloth that still remained.

He didn't know how long he had been sitting there, all he could think about was Alfred. Never again would he see him again. Never again would that smile greet him on some day, in some year. Never again would he hear his voice. Never again. . . Never. . . Again. . .

"Gahh!" Arthur let himself breakdown again, to scream at the top of his lungs, "Alfred! _Alfred_! _**Alfred**_! Why? _Why_? Ahh! Please, no! _No_! I don't-! I can't-! Ahhh!"

The more he screamed the more he gripped to the blood stained clothes in his hands. Alfred's clothes. . . He had brought them up to his face, crying and screaming into them. They smelt like him. . .

How would he be able to live like this? How could he live without Alfred? How could he? His heart was so heavy, his eyes so tired, his mind so clouded by pain. How would he ever be able to smile again? Arthur felt like he was living in a dark abyss, full of nothing. Absolute nothing. Without Alfred. . . Why was the world so dark?

When Francis and Mathew returned the house had been left empty. Nothing made a sound, besides that same grandfather clock that had haunted Francis the night before. But Arthur was no where to be seen; no where to be found. He was no where in the house, and Alfred's clothes laid on the couch, both blood and tears staining them.

"Where do you think he went?" Mathew asked looking out the front window to twilight painted street.

Francis sighed and shook his head, collecting the clothes in the living room and carefully picking up Alfred's glasses, "Knowing him. . . In a depressed state like this. . . He is probably getting drunk. . ."

Mathew frowned, "I don't blame him. . ."

"Neither do I. . ." Francis sighed again, "He'll be back late. . . He always is. . ." the Frenchman wandered into the kitchen and slowly placed Alfred's glasses inside the china hutch. They would be safe here; no damage would come to them.

Francis was right. Arthur returned late into the night. It was a little past one in the morning when the door creaked open, a shadowy figure stumbling inside. Mathew and Francis had been sitting in the living room, waiting patiently for the Englishman to return. So finally when he walked through the door Francis jumped up, heading straight to confront the man.

"Where have you been?" He asked harshly, making his way into the entry way, a few feet from Arthur.

The Brit swayed slightly and jerked his head up, "Wha' dah ya' care?"

Francis glared at him, "You can't get out of this, _Angleterre_. Alcohol will not bring _Amérique_ back."

Arthur let out a drunk laugh, rolling his neck back a bit, "Tha' bloody git can die fer' all I care!" he laughed again.

"He is dead!" The Frenchman yelled, gritting his teeth in anger. Even alcohol couldn't make Arthur forget that. He would never forget that. He was such a lier. Even if he was drunk. Lier. _Lier_. _**Lier**_!

Arthur burst out in laughter, but after a few seconds the tone in his voice began to change. The laugh transformed more into a moan, a voice that was trying so bad not to cry. He knew. He hadn't forgotten. He was just trying to make himself feel better. Tears swelled up in his eyes, and his laugh had fully turned into a cry of despair. The Englishman stood there, his head to the ceiling, crying, weeping, unable to do anything else.

"I can't even get drunk!" Arthur screamed, falling to his knees and crying into his hands, "It's not working! I don't understand! Why can't I? I always can! Why not this time? _Why_? I just want to forget! Just for a few hours! That's all I want! Let me forget! Please! _Please_! Why can't I just forget?"

Francis stared at the Brit, shock paralyzing him. He didn't know what to do. He had never seen Arthur like this. Never. Not once. Not once had he fallen in front of him. Not once had he show defeat. What was he supposed to do? What did Arthur _want_ him to do? The only thing he knew was to try and comfort him. Comfort. That should be enough. Enough to get him through tonight. The Frenchman kneeled down and pulled the sobbing Brit into his arms. That's all he could do. Hold him and let him cry. Just let him cry.

After a few moments Arthur removed his hands from his face and moved them to Francis's chest, gripping tightly to his clothes. Yes, comfort. Thats all he wanted. He didn't care by who, he didn't even remember that he hated that frog at the moment. He didn't care. He didn't. All he wanted to do was cry. Cry and cry and cry. . .

Francis pulled Arthur closer, resting his head on top of the Englishman's. He stroked his hair, just trying to do anything to comfort him. The Brit continued to speak, to mumble, to weep, and all Francis knew to do was listen.

_"Why is he gone?", "I don't understand!", "Why can't I get drunk?", "It's not working! It won't work! I'm still sober!", "How?", "Please, bring him back!", "I just want to forget!". . ._

The Brit cried for what seemed like hours, but in time the crying died down. He had not once let go of Francis. He clung to him as if he was a little boy who had just witnessed the death of his father, clinging to his mother to tell him it was all okay. It was all okay. . . It was all okay. . . Was it all okay. . ?

When Arthur's crying became stilled Francis lifted his face up just a little, checking to see if he had fallen asleep. Indeed he had. Arthur had cried himself to sleep, all the while clinging to Francis.

"Is he asleep?" Mathew asked, the whole time having been sitting on the stairs.

Francis glanced back at him, trying to not move Arthur to much, "_Oui_. . ."

Mathew let out a relived sigh, "That's good. . . He really needs it. . ."

"Sleep?" Francis asked, whispering.

"Yeah."

The Frenchman nodded, "Come. Help me get him to his room without waking him."

"Right." Mathew hopped up from the stairs and headed towards the two older men. He put his arms under Arthur's legs and held his back firmly as he lifted him up. The Englishman didn't wake as he was pulled up into the Canadians arms, rather he was still sleeping quite deeply. Thank God. He had to have been so very tired by now, crying the whole day like this. Francis stood up and dusted off his pants. He did stumble a bit, his legs having fallen asleep as he sat on them for who knows how long. Mathew began making his way up the stairs and Francis followed not to far behind, making sure that the Brit did not wake.

When they reached Arthur's bedroom Francis ran ahead and pulled the covers away in order for Mathew to set him down gently. Arthur didn't even stir. He was sound asleep. Though, streams of tears stained his face, but that was of no importance now. Francis covered him and moved the hair from his eyes. How weak he truly was at the moment; how truly broken. . .

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3! I almost forgot. I was to busy writing later chapters. Anywho~ Tell me what you think! I love getting reviews. You guys make my day and I really only post these to know what you think!<strong>


	4. Buried Beneath

**WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONSISTS OF BLOOD AND SOME GORE. IF THIS WILL BOTHER YOU, I SUGGEST NOT READING. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.**

* * *

><p>"My eyes have adjusted to dark and so is my heart<br>The weight of the world has covered me  
>I'm in over my head<br>Am I living or dead?  
>Can anyone hear me calling out?<p>

I'm calling out  
>. . . . . . . . . .<p>

I built this house on the shore  
>All I wanted was more<br>But I felt the sand start shifting  
>I saw the cracks in the walls<br>I painted over them all  
>I tried my best to just ignore<p>

I can't ignore

Finally breaking, so where are you now?  
>It's been such a long time<br>But I've tried to live without  
>I'm suffocating I need you to breathe<br>So reach down and pull me up  
>Pull me up before I am buried beneath<p>

I thought I was climbing out  
>But it's dragging me down<br>What's hidden here with me  
>Thought I was alone<br>But it pulls me deeper now  
>I can't escape"<p>

~Buried Beneath – RED

* * *

><p>The weeks coming passed rather slowly. Very slowly indeed. A meeting was held by Kiku for the strong and loyal friends of Alfred in order to see what they could do for the American people. All three of them went: Arthur, Francis, and Mathew. However, during the whole discussion, Arthur didn't say one word. He sat there, blank and unexpressed, not one noise coming from him. In fact, he looked like he might have been partly dead.<p>

Francis and Mathew had watched over the Englishman only until the meeting passed. After that, they took their leave; hoping that Arthur would have enough sense to take care of himself. Francis had his doubts about it though. Arthur was much more depressed then he had ever been; and he had been in many states of depression before. But this one. . . This one was just plain old nasty; one Arthur probably would take the longest time recovering from. The next few years were going to be hell, Francis just knew it.

The months passed slowly from June to July. It rained more than usual in England during those days. Did it have something to do with how Arthur felt? Maybe it did. . . But the chances were slim. Weather very rarely relied on the emotions of the country themselves.

For the past few weeks, Arthur had been unable to do much of anything. He felt like crying constantly, but he wouldn't let himself. He wouldn't. Hadn't he cried enough? Hadn't he already cried all his tears? Hadn't he? His mind said yes, but his heart said otherwise. No matter how many times he lied to himself and said it didn't matter, he still felt as though his whole world had crumbled; as if there was nothing left in the whole universe but him.

The days became longer and longer, each one getting darker and darker. A month had already come and gone since Alfred's death, and everyday Arthur grew deeper and deeper into depression. Would he have seen Alfred again by now? Wouldn't he have at least called? By now he would be going on and on about how much more amazing his birthday would have been this year. . .

His birthday. . .

Arthur shot up from his bed at the remembrance of Alfred's birthday. He had been laying there since yesterday afternoon, with no will or want to remove himself from it. Lately, this happened sometimes for days on end; where Arthur would only force himself to get up and return a call to his boss if mandatory. Other than that, he just laid there for no reason; thinking only of the death that had happened not too long ago. Sleep also overtook him for hours. _Hours_. He had no want to do anything, he only wanted to sleep. To forget about all that had happened. That's all he wanted.

But Alfred's birthday. . . His birthday, God damn it! His first birthday in almost two hundred and forty years where he wouldn't be bouncing around, shouting, cheering, and/or dragging people to attend. The first time in so long where he wouldn't be pleading for Arthur to come. It was the first time when Arthur wasn't thinking of this date as the day Alfred left him; but rather the fact that he would never be able to fix his mistakes and celebrate it with him again.

Arthur threw his feet over the side of the bed and jumped down, flying out of the room and down the stairs. Stumbling into his kitchen, he took a glance at the calendar that hung from the wall. July Fourth. . .

It was raining. . .

"July. . ." Arthur mumbled to himself, his hand shaking as it pointed to today's date, "Fourth. . . How. . . He's not. . ." He brought his hand to his face, covering his eyes and as he began to cry, "He's not here. . . This doesn't. . . Feel right. . . How. . . Can it. . ?" He stumbled back a ways, bumping into the counter and knocking a few things off. He then proceeded to fall the floor; holding his knees tightly to his chest, "It's not right. . . It's not right! Alfred. . . Alfred. . . I. . . Why. . . Aren't you here. . ? Why, damn it. . ? Why?"

* * *

><p><em>"Iggy!" Alfred shouted, throwing open Arthur's hotel room door.<em>

_ "Holy shit!" the Brit gasped, almost falling out of his hotel room chair, "What the bloody hell is your issue? Don't you know how to knock?"_

_ "Knocking?" Alfred cocked his head, now looking down at the Englishman in his chair, "What's that?" he laughed._

_ Arthur rolled his eyes, shaking his head and he sighed, "What do you want?"_

_ The American held out his hand, a letter addressed to Arthur in his fine grip, "For you!" he grinned._

_ Raising an eyebrow, Arthur took the letter from him and read it. After he finished reading, he looked up at the teenager's bright, grinning face. Alfred was obviously excited and waiting for a good reply from the Brit._

_ Arthur let out a sigh, "How many times have I told you this, Alfred?"_

_ "Um. . ." Alfred's blue eyes fell to the floor, "I dunno. . . A lot?"_

_ "Yes. A lot. I do not see __**why**__ you do not get this by now. I will not come to your stupid party. I think it's absolutely ridiculous. A birthday party! We're countries, Alfred. We don't have 'birthdays'."_

_ "But it's gonna be __**really**__ cool this year!" Alfred cheered, "We're even gonna set off the fireworks from my roof!"_

_ "Ha!" Arthur let out a shout, "And I will not be surprised if you blow yourself up! I will not be the one to help you, either. I won't care. I will not pick up the pieces of your body and try to put them back together like a bloody puzzle, because you were a bloody moron who decided he would shoot fireworks off on his house."_

_ Alfred stayed silent for a moment, his eyes wandering to the flo__or numerous t__imes. He wanted Arthur to come, but. . . Arthur. . . He didn't know what to say to convince him tha__t he really wan__ted him to come. . . That he really did want him there. That he wanted to hang around with him more often._

_ "There's gonna be cake too! Seriously dude, if you don't come, you'll be missing out on a lot!" his smile now looked slightly forced._

_ "Alfred, I am not coming. End of story. Go away and don't bother me about it again," he didn't take another glance at Alfred and got back to work._

_ "Okay. I'd still love to see you there, Iggy!" Alfred's voice slightly quivered as he left the room._

_ Arthur watched him leave from the corner of his eye. Yes, he did notice the change in Alfred voice. . . But. . . He was too scared to take any action. . . He was too weak. . ._

* * *

><p>Arthur let out a long moan, holding his head in his hands, "Alfred! I'm so sorry, damn it! I'm such a fool! Oh, God! Why was I so stupid? You just. . . How could I have hurt you like that? You just wanted me to come to your stupid party! God, why didn't I see that? You. . . You just. . . Why did I hurt you. . ? Oh, God, I'm so sorry. . . I'm so sorry. . ."<p>

One of his arms went limp, his fingers brushing against an object that had been knocked off the counter. He took it in his hand, a sharp stinging flowing through his palm. What was this? What. . . His tired, emerald eyes took a glance down at it. A knife. Of course. How convenient. Very convenient. . . With not much thought on it, Arthur's grip on the knife tightened as he brought it up to his eyes. What was he about to do? Why. . . Did he want to do this. . ? He didn't understand, and even if he told himself that it was a stupid idea, his arms did not listen.

A sudden pain crossed his wrist. Again, again, and again. Drops of dark red blood began to trickle down his arm, running down to his elbow and dripping onto his clothes and floor. Over and over he did it, his mind telling him to stop; but at the same time, telling him it would make up for the things he did and did not say. . .

_'Why did Alfred have to die. . ?'_

_'He was innocent. . . Innocent, damn it. . .'_

_'He was strong. . . He was strong. . .'_

_'Can I change this. . ?'_

_'Can I make up for a death wrongly served. . ?'_

_'What if I died. . ? What if I was dead. . ?'_

_'Could. . . Could I see him again. . ?'_

_'Would. . . Would he be there. . ? In death. . ?'_

_'Can I hold him again. . ? Tell him all the things I regret saying. . ?'_

_'Can I. . ?'_

_'In death. . ?'_

The knife slid from his hand, dropping and landing with a soft crash on the kitchen tile. Arthur proceeded to jump up with no hesitation. He ran at top speed, forgetting about the blood that was trickling down his arm, causing blood to trail behind him. He made a quick turn, and with a sudden opening of the basement door the sound resonated as feet pounded down the stairs. The Englishman slammed his hands down on the back desk as he began to dig through the different bottles and spell books he had. He almost tore the room apart. _Tore_ it apart. Papers went flying everywhere, bottles were tipped over, and books were thrown all over the place.

As quickly as he began, he stopped. A bottle full of some type of dark orange liquid was firmly in his grasp, and he stared at it with great intent. Once he had it, he ran back up the stairs to his kitchen, tripping slightly because of how fast he was going. When he got there, he drank the liquid and picked up the knife. If he was going to die, then shouldn't his death be worse than Alfred's. . ? Alfred didn't deserve death. . . At least Arthur had done things that deserved it. He deserved it; a worse death than Alfred. Yes. A worse death. . . And so, he would make himself hurt before death came to greet him.

Almost all logic had left him. He only thought of pain, of death; of Alfred, of killing himself. He only thought of the ways he could hurt himself in order to make it worse than Alfred's death. It needed to be worse. He couldn't just die. . . He couldn't. Yes. . . Seeing Alfred was top priority in this, but he wouldn't be able to rest knowing that he had not had worse, because Alfred didn't deserve death like he did.

The knife cut across the skin on his arm, cutting it open as if it was a dissection specimen. The pain was immense. Good. It needed to be. It needed to be. The liquid began working, doing its job. Arthur's insides began to feel as though they were on fire, and blood began to build up in his throat. No matter how bad the pain got, he continued to dissect his arm. Skin first, then muscle, then. . . Nerves. Once he hit these, his arm wouldn't work anymore. Though the muscle had been thick, extremely thick; he had not completely cut it open by the time his insides were exploding.

Coughing, he forgot about cutting himself for a moment. Blood flew from his mouth, running down his chin and onto the counter and floors. His arm, too, was _covered_ in blood, a sheet of red clothing the tables and cabinets. Suddenly, his body went limp. Arthur began to fall to the floor, the knife in his hand slicing partly through his wrist; leaving it half cut away from his body. His body lay on the floor; blood flowing from his wounds, surrounding him. He wasn't conscious any more. Not at all. As a country, he was a dead as he could be; his organs ripped apart from the inside out.

The date was the Fourth of July. . .

It was raining. . .

* * *

><p><em>"Angelterre?"<em>

Francis slowly opened the Brit's front door; trying his best to hold his umbrella above him. He looked around the entryway and scooted in. It was amazing how he had managed to find where Arthur hid his house key so quickly. Today's date being the Fourth of July and all, Francis found it necessary to check up on the Englishman; and boy, could have know any better.

"_Angelterre_?" he said, almost singing as he walked closer to the kitchen, "_Angelterre_, where are you?"

The red pool of liquid on the floor caught his attention. His eyes widened in fear, and he stood there in shock for a moment; not even knowing what he should think. It was a pool of blood! What was he supposed to do? Act like it wad normal? No, in fact, after only a few seconds, Francis bolted forward; running to the kitchen as fast as he could.

"_Angelterre_!" Francis screamed, rounding the kitchen island to see what was bleeding. As soon as his eyes laid sight of Arthur's dead body, his stomach twisted and caused him to gag. He covered his mouth quickly and turned to the sink, emptying his stomach. For the longest time he couldn't stop gagging, and every time he glanced down at Arthur it just made it worse.

It took him a few minutes to regain himself, and yet a few more to prepare himself for the sight. Francis took a deep breath and held it for a while; trying his best to calm him stomach down. He honestly couldn't believe that Arthur had done this to himself. What was he thinking. . ? What could have gone through his head. . ? Why did he do that. . ? He _knew_ he couldn't die that easily!

Shaking his head, Francis took a quick look at the Brit's arm and wrist, then up at the house entryway to get his mind off it. Thank God he knew how to sew; that way he would be able to get by without having to bring Arthur to the hospital. He could sew up his wounds himself. Though he may not be a professional surgeon, he knew what to do for a country with similar wounds. And so, he would help Arthur the best he could and hope that he would wake up soon.

Before he began working on Arthur though, he made sure to put him in a good spot. On the counter was not a good idea; because when the Englishman woke up and found himself, blood stained and weak on top his counter, he may have a fit. More rather, Francis set him on the couch; placing Arthur's arm on a table he moved over. It took him a while, for he was sure to be careful about all the stitches he made. This was skin, a body, not a piece of clothing that he could easily rip the seams out of. Once he was finished, he quietly left Arthur there and hoped for his consciousness.

As Francis waited a thought passed through his head. Why did Arthur have to try to kill himself? If he hadn't, maybe they could have celebrated Alfred's birthday together. Even so, they could celebrate when he woke up; but both of them knew that it wouldn't be the same without Alfred there.

* * *

><p>Dark, warm colors blurred and mixed while Arthur tried to open his eyes; squinting and blinking at the light. The brightness burned his eyes; and he quickly tried to rub them, halting when a sharp, massive pain flew down his arm. He groaned and left his arm where it was; not attempting to move it again. God, did it hurt. What did he –<p>

He glanced at his wounds, noticing the stitches located on his wrist and forearm. Oh, yeah. . . That's what he did. . . Arthur sighed and did his best to sit up; taking a few minutes to do so. Damn it, if only it worked. . . He would have been able to see Alfred again. . . Damn it! _Damn it!_ The Englishman bit his lip, forcing his tears back once more. Why. . . Why did he have to be immortal? It was a stupid curse. . . Why couldn't he just die? Why couldn't he see Alfred? Why. . ?

Arthur moaned and forced himself to his feet; trying his best not to move his arm or wrist too much. Slowly, he made his way out of the living room. A few thoughts crossed his mind as well.

_'Who the bloody hell is here? These wounds didn't sew themselves up on their own! I bet it's that damn frog. Who the bloody hell does he think he is; spying on me whenever he pleases? It's like he feels the need to invade my personal life all the time!'_

Just that moment, Arthur had succeeded in getting to the hallway; but his feet had gotten tangled below him and he stumbled, letting out a gasp as a burning sensation coated his arm.

"_Angleterre_!" a voice yelled from behind him.

Arthur glanced back, his face twisting in anger when he saw the Frenchman "Leave me alone, you fucking wanker!"

"_Angleterre_. . ." Francis said sadly, concern lacing his voice, "Are you. . . Okay?"

"Why the bloody hell wouldn't I be?" Arthur yelled, glaring daggers at the Frenchman.

Francis looked to the floor. "I'm worried about you, _Angleterre_. . ." he looked back up at the Englishman, "Why did you try to commit suicide?"

The emerald-eyed man stood silent for a moment, refusing to speak. Why should he tell him? Why did he have to know? Why couldn't he be left alone in his thoughts? Why couldn't everyone just leave him alone?

"_Angleterre_!"

"Why the bloody hell should I tell you?" Arthur said bluntly, beginning to walk down the hall. He wrist began throbbing, and suddenly Arthur tripped and let out a yipe. With great effort, the Brit quickly forced himself up against the wall; using it as a support to hold himself up. He closed his eyes, taking a few deep breaths.

"_Angleterre_!" Francis shouted, coming up behind him, "Be careful!"

"Don't touch me, you bloody frog!" Arthur screamed, his eyes filled with anger and hatred.

Francis backed off; though he fully noticed that that hatred was a cover up. A cover up. '_Damn it Arthur. Why do you keep hiding your feelings like this? It's not going to help you. . . Damn it, you __stupid asshole!'_

The two stood there in silence for a few more minutes, until the silence finally over whelmed them. There was something strange about this. . . What was it. . ? Why were they both just standing there like idiots?

"Arthur," Francis finally spoke up; the name catching the Englishman's attention, "Why did you do it? Why did you try to kill yourself? What were you thinking?"

Arthur sighed and turned around, "Why the bloody hell do I have to tell you?"

"Because-!" Francis yelled, "You raised him for Christ's sake! I know you miss him! You won't let it go! You're still depressed about the whole thing! I know you! This is because of that! You miss him! That's why! Don't tell me it's not!"

The Brit quickly bit his lip and looked away, "So what if it is? What if I miss him?" He abruptly turned to Francis again, "What does it matter to you?"

"It matters because I'm scared for you!" Francis screamed, "I'm worried about you, damn it!"

"Worried about me?" Arthur screamed back, "Worried? Why the fuck are _you_ worried?"

"Damn it, Arthur! Do you have to make me admit it?"

"Admit what?"

Francis let out an annoyed shout, "Gahh! _Oh mon Dieu, _Arthur!_ Pourquoi etes-tu fou? Je suis ton ami, ne vois-tu pas! Je me soucie de vous! Je suis préoccupé par vous!_ (Oh my God, Arthur! Why the hell are you such an idiot? I'm your friend, damn it! I care about you! I'm worried about you!)"

Arthur gritted his teeth, "_Inquiet? Vous étiez inquiets? Pourquoi n'essayez-vous pas été à ma place? Je admite, ça me manque, merde! Et vous savez quoi? Je ne veux pas vivre sans elle!_ (Worried? You're worried? Why don't you try being in my place? I admit it, I miss him, damn it! And you know what? I don't want to live without him!)"

Blue eyes stared harshly back at Arthur, but neither of them said another word. After a few minutes, the Brit sighed and turned around yet again; beginning to walk away. He took the long way to his kitchen, stopping by the counter that was next to the sliding glass door. That counter was where he stored his cigarettes, and he would smoke a few here and there. Funny thing was, he smoked, but he would never allow himself to do so in doors.

He took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter; then proceeded to walk out onto his back porch. The sound of birds, the pitter pat of water droplets left over from the rain, the rustling of trees. . . All such sounds he knew well. . . And yet the sight of the forest that stretched out in front of him was clouded by the fog that was rolling in.

Arthur let out a sigh as he lit his cigarette. Francis had a good reason to be worried. . . He did, and Arthur wasn't going to try to force himself to believe otherwise. That would be stupid. He wasn't an idiot who wouldn't even admit to himself that he had issues, was having issues, and was depressed as hell. God damn it, he couldn't even drag himself out of bed some days, or even eat! And thank God Francis didn't notice that at least. . . That he had lost weight. . . He would be even more worried, and Arthur just wanted people to leave him alone.

The minutes passed, and Arthur's pack of cigarettes grew smaller. How many had he smoked by now? He didn't know; he wasn't paying attention. Thoughts about the situation crawled through is mind. Yes, he did miss Alfred. . . There was no denying that. He missed him so much. . . So damn much. . . And damn it, Francis! He just wanted to see him again! To see him once more! Once more. . . Why not just once more. . ? Was that too much to ask. . ?

Arthur bit his lip and whimpered. Damn it, why did he have to keep himself from crying constantly? He always felt so dead. . . So. . . Alone. . . Locked in complete nothingness. His heart ached to the point where he felt like it would explode any minute; and all he wanted was to die. . . Because if he died, wouldn't all this pain go away? Wouldn't he be happy again? Wouldn't he be able to see Alfred again? Wouldn't he. . ?

To see Alfred again. . . Oh God, how he longed to see him again. To hold him, comfort him, laugh with him. . . Why did this happen? Why was Alfred gone? Why did Arthur now have to live without him? Why? Why, damn it? Why, Alfred? He constantly felt like crying, like doing nothing, like dying! Why did he have to feel this way? Why was he such an idiot?

"_Angleterre_?"

The sudden voice made Arthur jump, though only a little. He turned to look at the Frenchman while lighting another cigarette. His green-eyed glare was cold and sad; not much hatred in the mass pool of emotions now. Just sorrow and emptiness. . .

Francis had the glass door slightly opened, and stood in between that porch and kitchen, "_Angleterre_-"

"In or out, Frog!" Arthur yelled, cutting him off.

"Oh. . ." Francis quickly scooted outside and slid the door closed, "_Angleterre_. . ." he took notice of Arthur's eyes. There was no reason to hurt him farther right now; shouldn't he try to lighten the mood instead? "I. . . Je ne savais pas tu parles Français!(I didn't know you spoke French!)"

Arthur's eyes got wide and a few seconds later he gritted his teeth, "Frog! What does it matter if I speak French? It's a stupid, ugly language!"

"Oh hon hon~!" Francis laughed and moved closer to the Brit; now only a few feet away, "Mais tu le parle, non?(But you speak it, no?)"

"Don't get so bloody full of yourself!" Arthur shouted, taking a few steps back, "I only know it because your stupid Normans felt the need to take over!"

Francis raised an eyebrow and coughed, "But didn't you ask them to help. . ?"

Arthur grimaced, "Fuck you, France. Fuck you."

The Frenchman chuckled and stepped away; not willing to force himself to act flamboyant at the moment. It was a common way to act for him, flamboyant; but this was not a situation he felt like acting as so in. . . Not at all. It was not in him to act as such. Francis looked over at Arthur, who he noticed began smoking again. He seemed to be in his own little world; where thoughts of Alfred were probably filling it to the brink.

"_Angleterre_?" he spoke up, sadness glimmering off his eyes. The Brit glanced at him from the corner of his eye, "It's. . . It is only two days after _Amérique's_ birthday. . ."

"What about it?" Arthur said quickly, his voice choking from the forcefulness he said it with.

"Well. . ." Francis began, talking slowly, "he is not here to celebrate it. . . I thought maybe it would be a nice idea. . . To celebrate it for him. . ."

"What?" Arthur turned to face him; leaning up against the porch railing as his eyes began to water, "Why. . ?"

"Because. . . Even though he's not here. . . It doesn't seem right to act like things are normal on that day. . . Don't you think he would be happy that we're celebrating it, even when he's not here? Wouldn't he be happy to see you celebrating for him?"

Arthur let out a sigh and began to walk to the sliding door. "I'm sorry, France. . . I'm going to have to pass on this. . . Thank you anyways. . ." he walked inside and shut the door, leaving Francis outside alone.

* * *

><p><strong>Finally got around to updating. It's been a while. I tend to forget sometimes. So, I know this chapter involved. . . quite a bit of blood, and some slight gore. Yeah, I have a habit of putting stuff like this in my fics at points. Anyone who read Decending Darkness should know that I have an issue with writing blood and gore. :'D That was what made up that fic pretty much, which is why its rated M. But, since this is the only chapter with this much blood in it for this fic, rating it T made since to me.<strong>

**Anyways~ This fic will be LONG. Once I hit fourteen chapters thats only going to be half of it! However, thats also where all the really depressive things end. From there it switches. And of course you won't know the plot twist unless you stick to it! ;D Haha.**

**Thank you so much for the reviews guys! I really apreshiate it! I love, love, love hearing what you all think! I wish I was better at replying to reviews, so I shall reply to all you loyal readers here~**

**A Crying Reviewer - Thank you so much for the review! Aww, yeah, its a pretty tragic fic, isn't it? But no worries! You wont be crying the whole time! Just a lot of it atm... Haha. :'D I will for sure keep writing! Thank you again! Also, awesome for liking Josh!**

**Nerdygal-lol - Why, thank you! I'm glad you loved it so much! Bringing you to tears was my job! -shot- As you can tell, I have updated, so thank you again! I will keep doing so, and hopefully next time I don't forget. lol**

**sol jones - Awww, well, sometimes reading depressive stories is good? Its usually just a preference~ I like them too and tend to read them more often. Ahh, we're just odd like that I guess. But, this won't be depressing the whole time! I assure you! 8D It'll will just be that way for a while. . . Thank you for reviewing!**

**GoodnessCoconuts - Mattie? You be accusing himmmm? D': Haha, good choice, but I am afraid you are wrong my dear! I wouldn't be able to write an evil!Mattie. He's to cute and innocent. *O* Well, maybe not all the time, but you know.**

**crying like there's no 2morrow - Oh my, really? Well then, this is more depressing than I thought! Maybe this was my goal... -evil grin- I'm glad you are liking it, even though it is rather depressing... lol Haha, happy endingggg? Wutttttt? Who said anything about a happy endingggggg? -shifty eyes- Hemmm... I want your thoughts! How do you think this could end well? 8DDD (It does end well and happy, just to be clear~ I want to hear what you think though! :3 )**

**moonshadow2012 - Whoa! Loyal reader here I can tell! Thank you so much for 3 reviews! Ahahaha, that makes me feel special! I'm glad its kept your interest so far! I shall keep updating~ I just hope what I have written doesn't get to weird for some people. . . :'D**

**MikkiHasACookieForYou - I'm sorry! D': Ugh, I don't mean to depress you! Well, eh. . . Heheh. . . But, I'm sorta glad you can't stop reading, makes me feel like I'm a good writer~ Even if it is quite sad. I shall continue! Mwahah. ;D**

**Jokerharley - Your whole night? Nooooooo! I didn't mean to! Really! Forgive meeeeeee! OTL Amazing, huh? Well, thank you I guess! =)**

**Luigified531 - Two reviews? Thank you so much! 8D Nukes are probably a good way to go for bombings, huh? I was more so thinking that a few nukes were used here and there for this, and then other usual bombs as well. . . Nukes are hard to get ahold of. : / Thank God. lol I'd be tariffed if this really happened! And lucky you, small town. . . Ah, I used to live in one. I swear since mine is a bigger city it would be one of the first to go. DARN YOU CITIES. FAH. Thank you for doing the ratios! I didn't even do that myself. :'D I probably should have myself. . . lol**

**All of you, again I would like to thank you! It makes my day when I get reviews! Even if I don't reply right away, I still read them and they make me smile~ Thank you so much!**

**Also, again, this story does NOT focus on WHO killed Alfred. Its Alfred and Arthur's relationship, and how Arthur deals with his death. If you want to know who killed Alfred, it was a terrorist group. That is all I know. I haven't planned anymore of it out because I wasn't planning on focusing on it, nor was I thinking that people would think that was the main topic... Terrorists guys! Terrorists! They're the most obvious choice! xD And... IT WAS NOT CANADA. D: You'll see that later he has issues of his own. . . I was trying to make him the strong one in the beginning because he was the only one who didn't see him die.**


	5. Don't Wake Me

"I went to bed I was thinking about you  
>Ain't the same since I'm living without you<br>All the memories are getting colder  
>All the things that I wanna do over<p>

I went to bed I was thinking about you  
>I wanna talk and laugh like we used to<br>When I see you in my dreams at night  
>It's so real but it's in my mind<p>

And now  
>I guess<br>This is as good as it gets

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I went to bed I was thinking about you  
>And how it felt when I finally found you<br>It's like a movie playing over in my head  
>Don't wanna look 'cause i know how it ends<p>

All the words that I said that I wouldn't say  
>All the promises I made that I wouldn't break<br>It's last call, last song, last dance  
>'Cause I can't get you back, can't get a second chance<p>

And now, I guess  
>This is as good as it gets<br>These dreams of you keep on growing stronger  
>It ain't a lot but it's all I have<p>

Nothing to do but keep sleeping longer  
>Don't wanna stop cause I want you back<br>Don't wake me  
>'Cause I don't wanna leave this dream<br>Don't wake me  
>'Cause I never seem to stay asleep enough<br>When it's you I'm dreaming of  
>I don't wanna wake up<p>

Don't wake me  
>We're together just you and me<br>Don't wake me  
>'Cause we're happy like we used to be<br>I know I've gotta let you go  
>But don't wanna be alone<p>

I went to bed I was thinking about you  
>'Cause I don't wanna leave this dream<br>It ain't the same since I'm living without you.  
>'Cause I never seem to stay asleep enough<br>I know I've gotta let you go

But I don't wanna wake up."

~ Don't Wake Me - Skillet

* * *

><p>Arthur didn't know what Francis did for the rest of the day, for he didn't see him again. On the other hand, Arthur spent his time watching the news. . . Why did he do that? Was he stupid? This was all information on America, the situation over there. Why was he torturing himself like this? Why did he want to look at the destruction of all those cities. . ? The news caster kept their voice soothing and calm; knowing that by doing so their audience would feel more relaxed rather than distressed. Though, on the other hand, it didn't help Arthur much at all. . .<p>

"The American citizens, a month after the destruction of their country, have slowly begun to recover. Most people are still in shelters, and relief groups are doing all they can to provide people with food, water and clothing. There is still not enough of it to go around at the moment. Help from other countries is still appearing all the time. Money from different organizations are buying food for the victims, and new relief teams are appearing with each passing minute. If it keeps up, at this rate, the American's may be able to get up onto their feet once again.

Even so, there is still mass destruction; and numerous people are still missing. The collapsed sky scrapers and other buildings have fallen in the way of some towns; and relief teams are still trying to find a way to get to the people there after a whole month. We are currently unsure of the fate of those people, and whether they are still alive. . ."

Arthur shivered and covered his mouth. How could America have been reduced to this? How? There was no way. . . Even after a whole month, he still couldn't believe it. . . He refused to believe it. . . It just didn't seem real. He sat there and watched the news for a while longer, though none of it helped his mood. However, he did discover that some Americans had already begun to try to reform the government. There seemed to be quite a number of historians that had survived; and they had apparently joined together in order to rewrite the Constitution, and Declaration of independence for historic reasons. A few congressmen had also survived, seeing as how not all of them had been present during the attack. The President Pro-Tempore, second head of the Senate, had been a survivor. Thankfully, America had taken a step to protect the government from this type of thing slightly. There was a list of successors to the presidency, and the President Pro-Tempore was third in line, after the Vice President.

This team had just been put together, together with the new President; and there wasn't any sort of guarantee it would work, but, at the very least, it was worth a shot. They had announced that help from other countries, allies of the previous America, would be greatly appreciated. It would help and make things go faster; also improving the chances of it's success. In order to be able to put America back on its feet, and not have other countries start to form within its land, they had to work extremely fast. Thus, resulting in why they were beginning already.

With this information, Arthur decided that the next time he saw his boss; he would ask him about assisting America. About doing _something_. _Something_. Just, _something_! They had been allies, had they not? America and himself? So, why wouldn't his boss be okay with it? Why wouldn't they agree? Either way, they shouldn't just sit there. You're supposed to help your allies. Help them, and at the moment, America needed all the help it could get. There was no doubting that; and if you couldn't see that you'd have to been _blind_!

Over the next few months, Arthur spoke very few words with other countries; and even other people. He usually locked himself up in his house, only to do nothing. There was nothing he _could_ do. At least, nothing that he felt he could do. . . But at least he had told his government to do something about the situation in America; and indeed they did. They too had been thinking about what to do; and eventually set a plan in place in order to send some people over to help, more than just the few relief teams. But, other than that, they didn't do much. . . Which hurt Arthur to a point. It surely didn't help the depression he was in. Not at all.

So, Arthur spent his time sleeping; attempting to forget about what had happened, attempting to forget everything. How could he go on, knowing that Alfred would never appear again? Never visit him? Never smile? Never live? How could he? How could he, knowing that his one and only brother, best friend, and son had _died_? Alfred had been all three of those things to him. . . All _three_! How could anyone have known how he felt? Losing that much so quickly? How could they know. . ?

That was how Arthur spent his time. Sleeping. Forgetting. Dreaming. Dreaming of better things, but sometimes those '_better_' dreams turned into nightmares that just wouldn't stop haunting him. Sometimes, he would wake up in a cold sweat from them. A replay of Alfred's death, a haunting of the things Arthur had never done; the murdering of his closest friend with his own hands, a sweet dream turned horror. How could all these sweet dreams turn so. . . Disgusting? Why? He just wanted to sleep in order to forget all that; but even his dreams haunted him. There was just no escape, was there? It was everywhere. _Everywhere_. Though, sometimes the dreams had a feeling better than the one he had numerous days during his consciousness. At least the dreams weren't real; and it was only a matter of time until he woke up. Then, he could fall back asleep and start a sweet dream again. . . Sweet dreams. Such sweet dreams. . .

However, because he spent so much time sleeping, or sometimes even just staring out the window in his bedroom for hours, never removing himself from his bed; Arthur would go for days without eating. Nor drinking. He was practically starving himself, though, at the same time, it wasn't on purpose. . . Was it? He slept so often that he just wasn't hungry. He wasn't. How could he change that? The few times he did drag himself out of bed, he would just shower and check his weight, and of course, he had lost some. Well, not just some, a lot. Last time Francis had checked on him; it wasn't noticeable, but now. . . Now he feared it was. It showed in his face, his clothes. . . It showed. He couldn't hide it. . .

He cried for hours throughout some periods of time as well. Sometimes. . . he just couldn't take it. Sometimes he burst out in tears. . . Sometimes he. . . Sometimes he. . . missed his family. The one and only true member of his family. . . His brother, his son, his dearest friend. . . Sometimes, he missed him so much that he just couldn't take it anymore. . . Sometimes he. . . gave into what everyone fears. . . Sometimes… he gave into self hurt. . . Sometimes. . . it made him feel better. . . Sometimes, the pain of cutting himself was the only thing he knew to erase these feelings of depression. . . of sorrow. . . of self hate. . . of heartbreak. . . of loss. . . If only for a while. . . Only a little while. . . Just a little while. . . Just a little while longer. . . he could erase these feelings. . . A little while longer. . .

And so the cycle starts over again. . .

"Mr. Kirkland? Mr. Kirkland?"

The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom made his way up to Arthur's bedroom. He was curious as to why the nation wasn't answering his calls or coming to any of the meetings. It wasn't like Arthur to do such things, and as the Prime Minister and the country's boss, he had a right to come to his house and find out what was wrong. He opened the door to Arthur's room and made his way in, carefully examining the sleeping figure on the bed. What the heck was Arthur doing sleeping at five in the afternoon?

"Mr. Kirkland?" he waited for at least ten seconds. No reply. "Mr. Kirkland?" again, no reply. "England?" still nothing. "Arthur Kirkland?" a slight stir, nothing major. "Arthur!" oh. That did it. Who would have guessed?

Arthur slowly opened his eyes, and when he caught sight of his boss he did a double take and shook his head a few times. When he finally realized that he was really there he quickly sat up and scooted farther away from him. What the heck was the Prime Minister doing here?

"Wh-what are you doing here?" Arthur asked, flustered and very confused.

"I came to see why you weren't answering your phone," the Prime Minister began, "_or_ coming to any meetings," he gave Arthur a harsh look.

"Wah. . ?" the blond shook his head, "What do you mean?"

The Prime Minister sighed, "Arthur, I've been trying to call you for a _week_. You haven't answered _any_ of my calls!"

"A week. . ?" Arthur rubbed his eyes, "You're kidding me, right?"

His boss rolled his eyes, "Why would I do such a thing about such a topic?"

"It couldn't have been a week. . ." Arthur's emerald eyes searched around the room for his phone, finding it sitting on the nightstand by his bed. He reached for it and checked the missed calls, "Oh shit. . ."

"You really didn't know I had called, did you?"

Arthur sighed and shook his head, forcing himself out of his bed. He got to his feet and began walking out of his room, the Prime Minister not following to far behind him. They both walked down to the entryway of the house, Arthur apparently ready to rid himself of his boss already.

"Mr. Kirkland?" the Prime Minister asked when they reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Hem?" he grunted a reply and then glanced back at his boss.

"You _will_ try to answer your phone from now on, correct? We would like to have you at those meetings, and as the United Kingdom it is best if you know what is going on in your political system."

The emerald-eyed man sighed again, "I. . . can't promise anything. . ."

"Because?" Arthur didn't respond, "You are obligated to come to these meetings and to do your job as the personification of your country. If you do not give me a good reason, I have nothing to tell Legislature as to why you are absent."

"I do not have a reason to give you," Arthur replied dryly. He wasn't willing to tell his boss what was wrong. He didn't want anyone to know. Not even Francis who had just happened to stumble upon his issues.

"Arthur," the Prime Minister said calmly, "you are still dressed in your work clothes. You haven't answered my calls for a week and hadn't even known I had called. You look dead tired and like you have lost weight," he shook his head, "Arthur. Please tell me. Had you been in bed this whole time?"

Arthur stared blankly in front of him. What should he say? Admit to it? What if he did? He didn't know what to do. So instead he just stood there, not saying a word. Not a word. Nothing beside his constant breathing.

His boss sighed, "Arthur, please just tell me. I won't try to change it. I just need to know."

The blond took a deep breath and turned around, "Sleeping. . ? I honestly didn't know it had been a week. . ."

"Had you even gotten up at all?" Arthur shook his head, "Why? Whats wrong?"

"I don't understand why I have to tell you," Arthur said bluntly, glaring at his boss, "If I do not want you to know, then why should I be forced to tell you? Maybe I don't want you to know. Maybe I want to keep it to myself. Did you ever think about that?"

The Prime Minister looked away, "Arthur, does this have anything to do with America?"

The emerald-eyed man stayed silent for a few moments, then finally sighed and spoke up, "Well. . . I didn't tell you. . . I can't deny it if you can figure it out for yourself."

"Why would it have been that hard for you to have told me yourself? You could have just told me and this conversation would be over with."

"Because!" Arthur yelled, now glaring at his boss, "If I had told you you wouldn't have understood anyways!"

"What do you mean?" he questioned, "You have lost someone, and so of course you would be upset over it. I understand that."

"No." Arthur shook his head and gritted his teeth, "A human can not possibly understand what I have gone through. Why I am acting the way I am. You do not understand! You couldn't understand!"

"Arthur. I am not judging you-"

"That's not what I am upset about. Judging me is one thing, another is to understand. You can't possibly say you _understand_ what I am going through. I have slept for days on end, not even taking the time to remove myself from my bed or even _eat_ because of how hard this is! You cannot understand!"

"Of course I can understand! I have lost people close to me! I know how it feels and how hard it is for the first few months they are gone!"

"No. No, you don't. Loosing one person is one thing, but a _human_ does not understand this. The only possible way you could _ever_ understand is if you had been a father who had lost his son, his brother, and his best friend in the very same moment! The very same bloody _moment_!"

The Prime Minister stood there for a while, not saying a word. Arthur was right, he didn't understand the hurt of loosing that much at once. And did he say he hadn't eaten? No wonder he had lost weight. He had been sleeping for far to long. . . Finally he let out a sigh and looked into Arthur's eyes.

"Alright. I'm sorry, Arthur, for going farther into this then needed. I'm sure you did not want to discuss this with me," he began to walk to the door, past Arthur, then he looked back at the nation and smiled softly, "Please, try not to sleep so long."

Arthur cocked his head, "You're really going to leave me off as easy as that?"

"I don't see why not. I'm not a country, and you're right; I do not understand such things. If you need time to yourself, then thats what you should have. At least now I have a reason to give everyone else as to your absence."

Arthur's lips cracked a slight smile, "Yes. . . I guess that is true. . ."

"Arthur," the nation glanced up at his boss, "do you best to eat. Try to, okay? Even as a country it isn't good to go without food for so long. Also, do something to stay awake, to deal with this better. Don't sleep all day. Do something instead. Go sit on your porch, drink tea, watch television, read, do _something_. Please try."

Arthur smiled and led his boss to the door, opening it for him and watching him walk outside, "I shall try to try. . . Thank you," he closed the door and leaned up against it, thankful that the Prime Minister had finally left. At least he didn't try to change it. . . Thankfully.

Arthur took a deep breath and sighed, slipping down to a sitting position on the floor. He put his head in his hands and held his legs close to him. Oh God, what was he doing. . ? What the hell was he doing. . ? The Prime Minister was right, sleeping and starving himself wasn't going to fix anything. . . It wasn't going to make him feel better. . . But. . . the dreams. . . There was no way he could give those dreams up. It was all he had to cling to; all that was left of his little boy, his little brother, his best friend. . . All that was left. His dreams. He wasn't going to give them up. . . He would never give them up. Not yet. . . Not ever.

He took a look up at the kitchen wall and decided to get up. Dragging himself over to the sink he took a look at his reflection in the window. He _had_ lost weight. . . Quite a bit of it. . . How much _did_ he weigh now. . ? Maybe he should check, but right now. . . Right now all that rang in his mind was to relieve the pain in his heart; to redeem what he had done; to make up for all the things he had left unsaid. . .

Slowly, he pulled up his long sleeves and examined the previous cuts. They were almost gone now. . . But not quite, they were still scabbed over, a few of them. That was one good thing about being a country, scars on humans weren't always scars on his body. He touched the scabs a few times then reached for the kitchen knife.

Closing his eyes he mumbled something under his breath and lifted his head up as he drag the knife across his wrist. Blood flowed slowly from the wound, and he continued to repeat the process of dragging the knife across his skin many, many more times. . . Many, many more until the pain consumed him; until his heart felt like it had made up for the things he had not said; for the things he _had_ said. . . Until he felt like he was forgiven. . . But he _never_ felt forgiven. . . So how long would this drag on for? How long would he continue to hurt himself like this. . ? How long. . ?

He didn't know how long it was, all he knew was that it had been a long time because his mind had blocked out anything in between the cutting and his next dream. That dream was no day dream, because he awoke to find himself in his bed. So much for trying. . . It appeared that would be impossible. . . And in fact, to him, it was. There was no way he would eat, he never felt hungry, he never had the urge to do as such. . . He wouldn't eat. . . Not now. . . Not when he could be dreaming of better days. . . Not when he would be dreaming of Alfred. . . Not when he could be holding him again. . . Even if it was all in his mind.

He slept for so long. So long. He never wanted to awake. He never wanted to get out of bed. He never wanted to stop dreaming. . . Though, every so often when he did in fact drag himself out of bed his took the time to see how much he weighed. Personally, he honestly didn't care how much he had lost. Though, he kept the number in mind, for maybe, just maybe, at one point in time he might become concerned. Every time he check the number decreased. Slowly but surly he was getting lighter, skinnier. This wasn't healthy. . . But he couldn't bring himself to eat. He couldn't. Was it his fault that he didn't care? All he wanted to do was to forget; to dream; to do nothing but sleep; to stay in his own little world. . .

It had also been a while since he last saw the fairies. They had always visited him, but now he very rarely saw them. . . They seemed to have been concerned, but even they had not been able to convince him to take care of himself, and now. . . Now it was once in every great while that Arthur ever saw one. If he did happen to see one it would tell him such things as '_take care of yourself!', 'you need to eat!', 'Arthur, why are you doing this?'._ . . But even they, the fairies, had given up hope, and in time had fled from Arthur's vision completely. Was it just that they had left him? Or could he not see them anymore? Did they leave? Or was his ability to see them taken away by this depression. . ?

And so, back to sleep he went. For hours on end; for days on end; for weeks on end. . . He slept and slept and slept. . . Just sleeping; dreaming; forgetting. . . Sleeping. . . Yes. . . Sleep. . . Thats all he wanted, to sleep. How long had it been now? How long had he been sleeping this time? How long? The amount of time he spent sleeping increased every time he started the cycle over again. . . From just a week to two; to three; to a whole month. . . A whole month he wouldn't remove himself from his bed. . . A whole _month_.

Don't wake him. . . Don't ever wake him. . . Because all he wanted was to dream; to sleep; to see Alfred; to see his one and only true member of his family. . . Don't wake him. . . Don't wake. . . Don't stir. . . Just sleep. . . For all eternity. . . Let the sleep consume you. . . Let it engulf you. . . Forever. . . Never to wake again. . . If only it were that simple. . . If only he could stay in these dreams forever. . .

* * *

><p><strong>Well, it's been a rather long time since I updated last. . . Sorry guys, I got lazy, even though I had this chapter all done for a long while. D: Anywho, I hope you enjoyed this rather depressing chapter! Don't you think the song I chose matches this chapter so utterly well? Thing's are going to get somewhat weird from here. . . Or at least starting at chapter 7. Things go haywire. Just FYI. It might be a little awkward as well, idk. . . I find it to be odd, even though I had fun writing it. My friends said it was awesome and interesting and all that good stuff, but I'm self conscious of what others are gonna think even though I already got a lot of opinions. So just be looking out for that awkward moment and if you want to stop reading yeah... You can. However, things get better starting at chapter 14. :) (I know, so far away... T^T )<strong>

**Also, I just want to say something to all those people who still think Matthew is the one who caused all this crazy stuff. It wasn't, I don't think I'd be able to write Mattie like that. :'D It was just those crazy butt people who hate America to pieces in the general area of the southeast. **

**ONTO REPLIES! 'Cause I'm to lazy to go reply individually... :/**

**Luigified531 - Ahhh, yeah those types of cities are no fun. Thankfully, my city isn't one with skyscrapers and such. Just town that has a big enough population and amounts of land to be called a city. x'D I find some big cities to be nice though~ I wouldn't mind living in Vancouver, Canada. It's a very nice place to visit and live, so I've heard. :) If you get to meet Alfred, let me know! *O* 'Cause I'd like to get his number. ;D -shot-**

**HetaPastaH3ro - Awww, still everyone is thinking it's Mattie! xD Well, its not. Just... crazy people being mean butts on America because they don't like us. :/ **

**NightSociety - Why? BECAUSE I CARE THAT MUCH FOR YOU. jk jk. xD I just like... writing angst and sad things? ;~; Seriously, its like my goal to make people cry, which I seem to have succeeded doing. ;D And yes, there is a plot twist. *cough* Chapter 14 *cough***

**TheRavingFangirl - More awesome than Prussia? Really? How can something be THAT awesome? -dies- This must be pretty awesome then... I thank you for your awesome complement! 3 And I am sure to keep writing~**

**this chapter - Keep on crying. ;D I love to hear that. -shot- I must be sadistic. Actually... I am... At least to characters, as my other fics obviously state... ;3; Ohhh~ Your ideas there are quite nice! Who knows, maybe something interesting as such will occur! You never know what goes on in an authors mind! 8D P.S. Thank you for your lovely comment on my version of France. I find him to be quite awesome as well. :3 -Francefangirlhere-**

**Americalover94 - Awww, sorry! I guess waterfalls are a bit more then a few tears, huh? Well, at least that says its a good depressing story? Thank you for your review! And I'm sure with my explanation you now know who killed him? If not... Uh... Theres not much else I can do to say who did it 'cause I really thought it didn't really need to be said since I wasn't focusing on that... :'D**

**Hell's Tears - Thank you! I'm glad you think so! And actually, I was thinking about taking writing as a side job someday~ Hemmm... Maybe? Maybe not! I guess you'll have to wait and see! ;D**

**Thank you again for all the wonderful reviews! I really love reading them~ 3 They make me all warm and fuzzy insideeeeee! lol I also have to thank my beta reader, ixApples on youtube(also known as my amazing, wonderful Hubby~) **


	6. A Thousand Miles

Making my way downtown  
>Walking fast<br>Faces pass  
>And I'm home bound<p>

Staring blankly ahead  
>Just making my way<br>Making a way  
>Through the crowd<p>

It's always times like these  
>When I think of you<br>And I wonder  
>If you ever<br>Think of me

'Cause everything's so wrong  
>And I don't belong<br>Living in your  
>Precious memories<p>

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

And I, I  
>Don't want to let you know<br>I, I  
>Drown in your memory<br>I, I  
>Don't want to let this go<br>I, I  
>Don't...<p>

. . . . . . .

And I still need you  
>And I still miss you<br>And now I wonder...

If I could fall  
>Into the sky<br>Do you think time  
>Would pass us by<p>

'Cause you know I'd walk  
>A thousand miles<br>If I could  
>Just see you...<p>

If I could fall  
>Into the sky<br>Do you think time  
>Would pass me by<p>

'Cause you know I'd walk  
>A thousand miles<br>If I could  
>Just see you<p>

If I could  
>Just hold you<br>Tonight

_~A Thousand Miles – Vanessa Carlton_

* * *

><p><em>"Iggy!" Alfred yelled; coming up behind the Englishman and picking him up.<em>

_ "What the-!" Arthur shouted; kicking his feet and trying to find the ground, "Alfred?"_

_ Alfred took a look over Arthur's shoulder in order to see his eyes, "Yup!" he let him go and began poking his cheek, "Why? You look upset and tired. . ."_

_ Arthur was hesitant to answer, confused at Alfred's question, "Upset? Tired? What do you mean?"_

_ The American stuck out his lip, "Yeah!" he took Arthur's shoulder in his hands, "Look at yourself! You look horrible!"_

_ "What? I feel fine," the Brit raised an eyebrow, __and__ then took a look at himself. Alfred stood in front of him, examining Arthur as well. He was quite skinny, and his hands we're constantly shaking. That couldn't be good._

_ "Are you sure you're okay?" Alfred asked again, "You really don't look it. . ."_

_ "I. . ." Arthur took a long glance at his hands; then up at his once-colony, "I think so. . . I don't know why I wouldn't be. . ."_

_ The blue-eyed teen chuckled and then grinned at the Brit, "Well, if you think you're fine!" he smiled softly; then pulled the Englishman into his arms, holding him tightly to his chest. Arthur's eyes go wide in shock, but he did not protest. In fact. . . For some reason he was glad. . . Very glad. . . "Artie, I hope you at least look better soon."_

_ Tears pricked the edges of Arthur's eyes__; though__ he didn't even understand why. . . Why was he crying. . ? As Alfred held him, Arthur brought his own arms up and around the American; holding him close. So very close. He didn't want to let go. . ._

_ "Alfred. . ." Arthur said softly, his voice muffled by the shoulder his head was leaning on, "Please. . ."_

_ "Please, what. . ?" Alfred replied calmly, strengthening his hold around the older nation._

_ "Please. . . Don't go. . . Not yet. . ." he held Alfred closer; tighter._

_ Alfred laughed lightly, "I won't. I'll be here. Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere."_

_ "I don't. . . Want you to go. . . Don't leave. . . It's like. . . You've been gone for a really long time. . . And now I'm finally able to see you again. . ." tears streamed down his face__, running__ into Alfred's clothes; but the teen didn't seem to care, only __continuing __to hug and comfort him._

_ Alfred slowly began stroking Arthur's hair, and placed his head close to his, "I'm right here, Artie. I'm not going to leave you. . . Whatever it was __must have been__ a bad dream. Everything is okay now. I'm right here. . . I won't leave. Everything is-" a muffled shout of Arthur's French name off in the distance, "-kay. . . It's okay. . ."_

"Angleterre!"

_Arthur's eyes shot open as his hands clung to Alfred's shirt, "Was that France?"_

_ "Hem. . ?" Alfred looked around, "I didn't hear anything. . ."_

_ "Are you sure?"_

_ Alfred smiled and then nodded, "I didn't. I think you're just hearing things."_

_ The Englishman sighed and laid his head back down on Alfred's shoulder, "You're probably right. . ."_

_ The American laughed, "It's okay, Artie. It's-"_

"Angleterre!"

Suddenly all the blankets that had covered Arthur were ripped off; ungracefully thrown to the floor. The Brit's eyes shot open as he gasped from the sudden chill that ran down his body. He sat up with a start and tried to find the blankets again. Arms quickly wrapped around his waist and began pulling him out of the bed.

Arthur screamed as he was dragged from his room, kicking and yelling. His feet never touched the floor; for he had been lifted too far off the ground. He did his best, attempting to kick his attacker; but in the end he failed, only having managed to tire himself out. He also tried to pry the arms away using his hands and fingernails; but the other man was too strong. The man ignored the pain of the constant clawing of his skin and continued to drag Arthur from his room.

"Ahhh!" Arthur screamed, "What the bloody hell? Fuck! Grahhh! Let me go, you bloody bastard! Fuck you! _Fuck you!_ What are you doing? Ahh!"

"I will not let you starve yourself, _Angleterre_!" Francis yelled back, struggling to drag Arthur down the stairs.

"You bloody frog!" Arthur yelled; now even more upset knowing that it was Francis, "Put me the fuck down! What do you think you're _doing_?"

Francis dragged Arthur through the entryway to the kitchen, the Brit going absolutely crazy the whole time. By the time they reached the kitchen, however, Arthur was breathing quite heavily. He stopped kicking; now only using his hands to try and get free. Quickly, Francis threw Arthur up against one of the counters; reaching into the bag of bread that sat on the kitchen island. He had set it there earlier when he had come in; knowing that he would need it within close reach when he woke the Englishman up.

Arthur stumbled for a few seconds, trying to regain his balance and stand up; but before he had managed to do so, Francis grabbed his hair and shoved the bread into his mouth. As fast as he could, Arthur brought his hands up, trying to remove Francis's hand from his mouth. Francis, however, didn't flinch. He stood there, a harsh glare burning off his eyes; keeping his hand in place and making sure not to give into the pain that Arthur was causing by clawing at him.

"Eat it, _Angleterre_!" Francis screamed; one of his hands close to being shoved in Arthur's mouth and the other holding his hair, "I will not let go until you do!"

Arthur made a few choking noises and began coughing; trying to rid his mouth of the food. He wouldn't eat it. He didn't want to. Why should he be forced? Over and over again he tried to spit it out, causing food and saliva to fly all over his chin and Francis's hand and face. The Frenchman didn't seem to care about the food that landed on him though; he was only focused on getting Arthur to eat. So what if he was almost suffocating him? It didn't matter! Arthur _had_ to eat! He had to eat _something_! Anything!

Finally, after at least thirty seconds of struggling; Arthur swallowed what little was left of the bread, and shoved Francis's hand from his face. He gasped for air over and over again; but once more, Francis shoved another piece of bread into his mouth. This time Arthur attempted to shove Francis's face away; to hit him in some way, any way, but it failed. Francis held onto Arthur's hair tightly and covered his mouth. He wasn't going to let him get away with this; not without eating.

"Eat it, Arthur!" he yelled again, "You can't keep doing this! You _have_ to eat! I don't care if you don't like it! You're not going to starve yourself!"

Arthur attempted to spit at him; only causing the saliva and food to make their way onto his face and Francis's hand again. Francis didn't give up though. He was going to force him to eat no matter what he did. This time Arthur didn't last long. He had struggled for a while, trying to pull Francis's hands away; but he had finally swallowed the food. Maybe it was because of how much Francis's was suffocating him. . .

Again, Francis shoved a piece of bread into Arthur's mouth before he had a chance to catch his breath. He didn't attempt to fight back this time, at least not with his hands. Francis held his hand over his mouth, but instead of grabbing hold of Arthur's hair; he put his other hand under the Brit's jaw. Even if Arthur wasn't fighting back with his hands, he still wouldn't eat. He spat it back up, refusing to swallow it, and so Francis would be sure to make him chew his food and get it into his stomach.

He forced Arthur to eat, keeping his mouth shut until he could hear the Brit swallow. It wasn't hard to tell when he did so with how Arthur was acting. Arthur whined and moaned; even almost actually crying because of this. He _hated_ it. Absolutely _hated_ it. Despised it. God damn it, he didn't want to eat! This was like torture. Why the hell was Francis doing this to him? Another piece of bread was shoved into his mouth, and without much hesitation; he almost swallowed it whole, forcing it down his dry throat.

Suddenly he double forward; forcing Francis out of the way. His hair flew into his face and he quickly covered his mouth, beginning to gag. Oh God, why was he gagging? This was horrible! Arthur's stomach refused to keep the food down, and soon he found himself throwing it all back up onto his kitchen floor. The burning sensation in his throat never calmed down as he continued to gag and vomit up the small amount of food that had made its way into his stomach; the only source of food he had had in months.

Eventually, Arthur fell to his knees, unable to stay standing. His legs were too weak, and had given out on him as he continued to puke. The puking never ended. For a few seconds he would vomit; and for a few seconds after he would sit there, panting as he caught his breath. Then again, he would vomit; only to pant and vomit again. By now there was nothing left in his stomach to remove; but even so, his stomach refused to stop heaving, to stop trying to remove what had invaded its emptiness. Oh God, when would this be over? When would he stop gagging like this. . ?

Arthur's head was spinning from the lack of oxygen and the amount of energy his body was forcing him to use. He felt lightheaded, and nothing stood in place. The pile of liquid vomit that laid on the floor below him stared up at him; laughing at him and his pitiful situation. He gazed at it for the longest time; just trying to catch his breath. What was he doing. . ? What was he doing to himself. . ?

"_Angleterre_. . ." Francis spoke up softly, looking down at Arthur with sadness in his eyes, "How long has it been since you last ate?"

Arthur didn't respond, he only continued to breathe heavily and stare at the mess he had made.

"_Angleterre_," no response, "_Angleterre_. . . This isn't good, you know. . ." the Englishman looked up, wiping his mouth off, but he did not answer, "Have you taken a look at yourself lately, _Angleterre_?" a slight response, at least he shook his head 'no', "You are as skinny as a rail! You don't even look like yourself! Are you trying to lose weight on purpose?"

Arthur made an attempt to move himself up off the floor, stumbling around quite a lot. Eventually, he found his standings and stood up straight; using the counter top as a brace while he caught his breath. He breathed heavily and stared at the floor, still giving no response to Francis's question. Finally, he spoke up on his own.

"How did you find out about this. . ?" Arthur didn't look at the Frenchman, only focusing on the floor below him.

Francis sighed, "I was concerned about you; and you weren't answering your phone. . . So I called your boss, and he let me know what he knew. When I found out I couldn't just sit by and let you do this to yourself. . ." no response, "_Angleterre_. . . Have you been sleeping this whole time? Is that why you're not eating or answering your phone. . ?"

Arthur brought a hand up to his eyes and bit his lip, "I don't. . ." he began, his voice shaking and holding back tears, "I don't like sleeping like this. . . I really don't. . ." he quickly jerked his head up to the Frenchman, pain and sorrow glimmering off his eyes, "But I don't know what else to do! I'm so sick, and sometimes I can't even breathe! The only thing I know to do to make all of this go away is to sleep! Just so I can forget it! Just so I don't have to deal with it!" he let his head fall as a few tears rolled down his cheeks, "But. . . Alfred. . . I can see him there. . . When I sleep. . . And in my dreams, he's there. . . comforting me. . . Telling me things are okay. . . That it's all okay. . . That he won't leave me again. . . He's there smiling at me, laughing with me. . . And every time I wake up I just want to fall back asleep so I can see him again. . . But even he can see that I'm not okay. He can see that I feel like shit; which is why he's always comforting me! I feel like downright shit and I hate it! Even in my dreams; I just can't get away from it!"

Arthur broke down in sobs, crying into his hands as his voice cracked and shook as he tried to continue speaking, "I can't e-even pull myself out of a fucking d-depression in my own bloody d-dreams! I can't even b-bring myself to d-drag myself out of my bed and e-eat when I'm awake! I feel like shit! _Shit_! I just can't stop th-thinking about him! I can't s-stop missing him and regretting all the th-things I've done to him! The things I've said to h-him! How I was a horrible brother and f-friend! And worst of all I was a fucking shit-arse father! I was the worst father ever! And now he's gone forever, and I can't fix any of the shit I've done! The only thing I can do to try to fix anything is to tell him everything in a fucking dream! An imaginary world that's not even real! That's the only thing I can do to make me feel even the least bit better! It's all I have! I don't know what else I should say or do or even think! I have no bloody idea! I have no bloody idea. . ."

Francis stared at the younger nation for quite a long time, silence over taking the house. He didn't know what to say to him; he didn't know what he should do. Arthur was in the biggest depression of his life, and he had gone through many, many depressions before. . . But this time, it was worse than anything he had seen before. It was even worse than after the Revolution, which mean it was _bad_.

All of the sudden, strong arms wrapped around and pulled Arthur's head in close to a body, "Arthur. . ." Francis said; holding the Brit, who now only shed silent tears, absolutely shocked by the Frenchman's actions. He refused on holding to such a man for comfort; so he let his arms hang down at his side, not making any movement, "I know you know that it isn't good to be doing this to yourself. . . And I know that you know that you need to try to change this. . . And I know that you don't want help from me. . . But. . . for once I don't want to be considered a 'bloody Frenchman' or a 'bloody frog', or to even look at you like you are an Englishman. . . and I don't care if we hate each other, because right now I just want to be considered a friend. A friend who is here to help you. . ."

Arthur's eyes shot wide open at his words. Friend? Francis? A friend? Was he. . . being serious? The Englishman bit his lip and tasted his salty tears, trying his best not to give into the temptation of taking Francis's offer of comfort, "Because you're not alone. Other people are going through the loss of losing him too. I miss him. . . I really do. . . He was a close friend. . . just like he was to you. . . but I have been able to survive it. . . I want to help you get through this, Arthur. I hate seeing you like this. . ."

That was it. He couldn't take it. He gave in. Arthur hurriedly brought his arms up around the Frenchman, clinging to his clothes tightly. His sobbing started up again, and he began moaning; burying his head in Francis's shoulder. Stroking his hair softly, Francis just stood there and held him; doing the best he could to comfort his friend, his old friend.

Arthur moaned and sobbed, his voice muffled by clothes, "Why? I don't understand, damn it! How could he be gone? How do I live without him?" he clung even tighter to the Frenchman, "I don't know how to fix it! I don't know how to get out of this! I don't know what I can do but sleep! But sleeping is just making it worse and I-! I-! I don't-! I don't want to stop dreaming! I don't want to stop seeing him, damn it! I don't know what to do!"

Francis stroked his head, trying to calm him down. His voice was smooth and warm as he spoke, "It's okay. . . You can't fix it right away. It will take time. How about right now you just try to eat something, okay?"

The emerald-eyed man took a deep breath, letting go of Francis as he rubbed his eyes. He set a glare on the Frenchman, "And how do you purpose that. . ? You just shoved four pieces of bread down my throat and I vomited all over the floor. How do you expect me to be able to eat _anything_ else?"

Francis laughed and made his way over to Arthur's fridge, "Do you have any good ingredients in here? I'll make you soup!" he grinned back at the Brit who gave him a very confused look of annoyance, "From what happened earlier, I would assume your stomach is incapable of digesting solid food at the moment. That happens when you don't eat for months," his facial expression went blank; and he raised an eyebrow to Arthur, who in return, only looked up with his eyes. It was one of those looks that sarcastically said _'What? I don't know what you're talking about!'_ "So," Francis began searching through the fridge after rolling his eyes, "small amounts of soup to start off with and gradually increasing the portions you eat will help you be able to recover."

Arthur sighed, "Fine, I'll attempt to eat your horrid soup. I don't care what you use to make it; just don't feed me anything that's poisoned. Which means _check the expiration date, please_. I don't know how long half of those things have been sitting in there by now."

"Ah, alright, alright," he took a few ingredients in hand and placed them on the counter, "Don't worry; I'm trying to help you, _Angleterre_, not kill you."

He smiled at the Englishman and began cooking. Arthur took a glance out the window. It was raining again. . . Why was it always raining? It was then that the reflection in the glass caught his attention. He stared at it for the longest time, trying to figure out who or what it was. He honestly couldn't tell. Was that. . . him? Was that really him? It was a window. . . It could distort the image. . . Maybe he should go look in a real mirror? Maybe he should check? But. . . maybe he shouldn't. . . What if it was worse then what he was seeing now? What if he saw a living corpse in that mirror? What would he do. . ?

Silently, Arthur made his way out of the kitchen and down the hall towards the bathroom. He moved silently like a ghost; not wanting Francis to notice him. When he got there, he opened the door the best he could to keep it from making noise and slipped in; only turning on the light when he closed the door. Before he flipped the light switch, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes; scared of what he might see. He really had no clue what he looked like; no clue what to even imagine he looked like. Yes, he did feel weaker and much lighter than he had been previously; but last time he checked he wasn't _that_ much underweight. . . At least. . . Not deathly underweight. But that must have been a month ago, at the very least…

He flipped the switch and turned himself to face the mirror, keeping his eyes closed. What was he going to see? Arthur took another breath and slowly released it. As soon as his lungs had exhaled the air, he opened his eyes and stared at his reflection. The intensity as he stared at the stranger in the mirror was immense. Who was this person looking back at him? Imposter. A fake. That wasn't him. There was no way that could possibly be him.

The person who glared back at Arthur had blond hair, just like him, but it had been tainted with dirt and grime; causing the color to look darker than it really was. Strands of hair were plastered to the stranger's face with grease, hanging down over the person's forehead. The same green eyes, exactly the same, stared back at him with an intense stare full of sorrow and hate; hate for this person that he was gazing at. The stranger's cheeks had sunk in; almost as if his face was practically only covered by skin.

For a second, Arthur looked away from the mirror and sighed; taking another deep breath. He exhaled and looked up again. The same stranger. Though this time, Arthur only focused on the body. Baggy clothes, dirty clothes, old clothes. They didn't fit. Whoever this was didn't belong in these garments. They were far too big. He lifted his arms, the stranger following his exact actions, and reached for the bottom of his shirt. Arthur removed it and let it fall the floor; not caring about where it landed. It could be picked up later.

The mirror was a liar. A big liar. What else could explain this? This stranger. . . This. . . person. . . This body. . . It couldn't be his own. . . It was impossible. . . Arthur stared at his reflection for quite a long time; taking deep breath after deep breath. Oh God, he really hadn't eaten in such a long time, had he? He did, in fact, closely resemble a living corpse. He was skinny. Too skinny. Though, he _had_ seen worse. He had seen much worse. But even so, for a man like himself; one who was not forced to work with almost no food in the freezing cold, had no right to look this way. Not because he was too damn selfish to eat; not because he was too wrapped up in his dreams. . .

Arthur touched his ribs, which he could see clearly under his skin. His own body made him sick. . . Why hadn't he had cared before? What made him think he had the right to do this to himself? What made him think. . ? His arms practically held no muscle, and his stomach stood sunken in under his ribs; his shoulders and collar bones looked as if they were only covered by skin. . . Oh God, he looked absolutely horrible. . . Horrible. . .

How much did he weigh? He didn't even know. Maybe he should check. Maybe he should just see. Just _see_. But, on the other hand, would that make it worse? Knowing how underweight he was? Would it matter? Would he care? Would he be bothered by it? Would it bother him to much? Would he be glad he knew? Would he? Why didn't he know what he would think? Why didn't he know his own emotional response to this?

The Englishman took another deep breath and pulled out his scale. He stared at it for the longest time; debating with himself as to what he should do. It shouldn't have been such a hard decision; but for some reason, he just couldn't get himself to do so. '_Just weight yourself, Arthur. Just stand on it; just look at the bloody number'__._ . . Why was it that hard to do? Why? It wasn't difficult; it wasn't hard. . .

Arthur shut his eyes and stood on the scale. After a few second, he slowly opened one of his eyes and took a glance at the number. One hundred and seven pounds (Forty-eight point five kilograms). . . One hundred and seven pounds (Forty-eight point five), verse what he should be; one hundred and fifty (sixty-eight). . . That was about forty-eight pounds (five kilograms) underweight. What had he been doing to himself? Why had he been doing this to himself? Not even _he_ could stand how he looked right now. . . Francis was definitely correct; this wasn't good. He _did_ have the right to try the force Arthur to eat; and Arthur himself came to agree with the Frenchman's actions now. If Francis hadn't done what he had. . . Would Arthur have ever noticed what he had done to himself? Would he have noticed? Or would it have lasted even longer, to where Arthur may have literally only been skin and bones? Could it have gotten that bad? Could it have. . ?

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><p><strong>Ahh, took a bit longer to update this time. It's cause I was actually lazy. And I'm slightly stuck... But much farther on into the story. :'D But, hopefully it will be resolved~ Anywho, did you enjoy this chapter? I know, I know... Theres cute France and England moments~ I love them... They make awesome friends.<strong>


	7. Cactus in the Valley

"I never meant to wither  
>I wanted to be tall<br>like a fool left the river  
>and watched my branches fall<br>old and thirsty I longed for the flood to come back around  
>to the cactus in the valley,that's about to crumble down<p>

so the storm finally found me  
>and left me in the dark<br>in the cloud around me,  
>i don't know where you are<br>if this whole world goes up in arms  
>all i can do is stand<br>and i won't fight for anyone  
>until you move my hand<p>

in the shadow, here i am  
>and i need someone by my side<br>it becomes so  
>hard to stand<br>and i keep trying to dry my eyes  
>come and find me<br>in the valley

and wipe the mark of sadness from my face  
>show me that your love will never change<br>if my yesterday is a disgrace  
>tell me that you still recall my name"<p>

~Cactus in the Valley - LIGHTS

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><p>Arthur stared at the number for a long time, not exactly knowing what he should do. He took yet another deep breath and stepped off the scale. No use just standing there. . . But at least standing there was better then sleeping, right? Wasn't it? Eventually, Arthur slipped his shirt back on and scurried out of the bathroom; tired of seeing his reflection laughing at him; mocking him; proving to him how pathetic he really was. . .<p>

He silently made his way down the hall back to the kitchen. Francis hadn't noticed his disappearance and was still cooking, string some sort of soup while trying to amuse himself by humming his national anthem. The Brit quietly took a seat on one of the island stools and laid his head down on his arms. He sighed and closed his eyes, not exactly sure what he was doing or going to do. He wasn't motivated to do anything; he didn't want to do anything; he couldn't do anything. . . All he did do was think of Alfred. Everyday. Every single day. His mind wouldn't move. . .

"_Clank_!"

The sudden noise form the bowl hitting the counted caused Arthur to jump. He quickly sat up, the smell of the soup making his stomach turn.

"Oh God!" he yelled,covering his mouth and glaring at the bowl, "I thought you weren't going to try to kill me!"

Francis raised and eyebrow, "I'm not. . . Why? Is something wrong with it?"

"That smells disgusting!"

"Really?" Francis cocked his head then took the bowl from Arthur, wafting the smell to his nose. He raised an eyebrow once again and glanced down at the Englishman curiously, "Smells fine to me. In fact, I think it smells delicious!"

Arthur winced, "Of course, you bloody ninny. You're the one who cooked it. Of course you would say that!"

Francis tilted his head, "I cooked it, but why does that mean that it would smell good only to me? I know you hate French food, but seriously _Angleterre_, why would I be trying to upset your stomach more?"

The emerald-eyed man rolled his eyes, "I don't know. Why would you? Because you hate me, possibly?"

"I'm not trying to hurt you, Arthur," Francis sighed, then to prove his point that the food was perfectly fine he took a few bits of it. He loudly set the bowl back down on the table in front of Arthur, "See? There's nothing wrong with it. If I can eat it then you should be able to as well."

Again, Arthur winced, but he sucked up his pride and lifted to bowl to his face, not bothering to use a spoon for how little was in it. He gulped it down and squinted with disgust. To him this soup tasted _nasty_. Absolutely _nasty_. Though his stomach wasn't going crazy. Yet. That was a good thing. . . Until now. There was only very little soup in that bowl, which was a very good thing, because now, all of the sudden, his stomach _did_ act up. It was twisting and he felt like he was about to hurl, and as quickly as possible he covered covered his mouth. Oh, God! _Please_ don't make him vomit for the second time today! _Please_!

"_Angleterre_," Francis said calmly, taking notice of the situation, "take a deep breath and swallow, okay?"

Arthur closed his eyes and did what he said, just praying his stomach would calm down. Damn it! Was he really in such bad condition that his own stomach couldn't even hold the smallest amount of soup? Damn it! _Damn it! _

'_Clank_!' Yet again, Arthur jumped at the sound of a dish being placed in front of him. He took a glance at it. A cup full of water. . ? The Brit gazed up at the Frenchman who had set it there. He was smiling softly; nicely; truly. That wasn't a play on. . . Francis really was trying to help the best he could. . .

"Boire." He said, pushing the glass closer to Arthur until he took it from him.

Arthur nodded and took a quick gulp then set the glass back down. He shook his head and exhaled. . . Hem. . . The Englishman looked up at Francis and raised one of his bushy eyebrows.

"Did it help?" Francis asked. Arthur nodded, "Haha, good!" he smiled.

Arthur sighed and looked into his reflection in the cup of water, "I'll say it only once. . ." he whispered, "Thank you. . . I guess. . ."

For the next few weeks Francis stayed with Arthur, cooking him the right amount of food everyday so that he could recover. At the same time he kept the Brit from sleeping to long, sometimes having to _drag_ him out like he did the first time. Somedays it seemed as though Arthur understood everything about the situation. He spoke very logically about it; like his head was all there; like he knew exactly what was wrong with him and why it was wrong. The discussions he would have with the Frenchman about his feelings were even quite amazing. He would share, quite honestly, why he was doing such things. Why he was acting the way he was. However, when he times came where he did share, most of the time he spoke very quietly, softly, muffled, or he spoke loudly, whining, and screaming. There was no middle ground for it. None at all. It was one or the other or nothing at all.

But some days. . . Some days he just sat there, almost dead, staring off into a cold abyss of nothing, moaning about how he just wanted to sleep. Sometimes he would even talk about death, about how he wanted to die and never come back; to die and be rid of this horrible, horrible pain forever; to die and. . . See Alfred again. . . See his son; his brother; his best friend. . . Once more.

On those days, he wouldn't eat, or at least he would protest, because Francis wasn't going to just let him be. On those days, Francis would shove the food into his mouth, just like he had that first day, and force him to eat it. Arthur, on the other hand, was no where near fond of this, and he yelled and fought back. On those days, his mind was no where to be found. On those days, his logical thinking had flown out the window, and he was caught in a never ending swirl of emotions that wrapped him up and suffocated him. A never ending whirlwind of emotions. . . Negative emotions. . .

The days went by, then the weeks. Slowly they passed, and as they did Francis did his best to comfort the dieing Brit. He wasn't physically dieing. Not like Alfred had. But mentally, emotionally. . . Arthur was almost gone, Francis could see it in his eyes. It wasn't hard to miss, but trying to figure out what he could do to save him was the hardest part of all. To save him from this depression. What _could_ he do? What could he? All he knew was to keep feeding him, to keep waking him up whenever he fell asleep during the day, to wake him up in the mornings as not to let him fall back into that horrid routine. But what if he wanted to do more? What if he wanted to help more? What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to care for such a strong, strong nation who had practically been turned back into the helpless, weak little child from so long ago. . ? The child that had been tossed around and beaten, threatened, and destroyed so many times over. . . What could he do. . ?

Arthur lived in his own little world most of the time. He acted like a zombie who walked around, dead, and unliving, just trying to to find a reason to continue. When America had won the Revolutionary war, when he had split off and claimed independence from England, Arthur had gone into one of the worse depressions of his life. At least, from that point in his life. After that he did practically nothing but drink, but sleep, but cry, and drink even more. He became an alcoholic, and he just wanted some release from the pain of loosing Alfred. But this time. . . Alfred was gone for good, and Arthur's depression was even worse than that time. Than it had ever been. Alfred was gone. . . _Gone_! He wouldn't even see him again! Never. Again!

The pain consumed him, and he was scared to drink again. He was scared to drink this time; scared to consume the alcohol. If he drank. . . Would it even help at all? Or would it be like last time? Would it be like last time where he drank, and drank, and drank, and drank, and drank. . . But he still could not escape. . ? He was scared. . . Scared that he wouldn't be able to get drunk. . . Scared that he wouldn't be able to forget. . . Scared that if it didn't work than he would be consumed by the memories; by the thoughts; by the pain. . . He was scared of the only thing that had ever worked for him before, and he didn't know what to do with himself anymore without it. . .

Francis wanted to help, he wanted to do something more for Arthur, but all that he knew was to keep doing the basic things of making sure he ate and slept decently. Though, a lot was going on in America now, right now, due to the events of late. Would educating both himself and Arthur on the situation help? Would arthur be able to take it? He decided it would be worth a shot, and if it was positive information, then maybe Arthur would feel the least bit better knowing that the land that used to be Alfred was recovering. . . So, at one point, on one of the Englishman's better days, Francis sat him down in the living room and turned on the news. Even almost a year and a half later everyone was still talking about the fall of the worlds present, or past, World Power. . .

Arthur huffed as he sat down, leaning his head on his hand, "Why are you forcing me to watch this?" he asked, watching as Francis went to turn on the T.V.

As he walked back, the Frenchman examined his friend's condition. He would do so silently, periodically, without letting him know and in moments when Arthur was most likely not looking at him. For if he was and saw where Francis's eyes were moving, he may get angry and think he was being a pervert. Though in fact he was only taking a moment to analyze Arthur's recovery. This time he noticed Arthur's eyes float quickly to the television, so he took the moment to carefully note the things that he might still need to do, or improve on, while helping him. Such as what to do to his food, what he should be able to eat now, how much or how little of something, all depending on his physical condition.

At the moment Arthur looked like he was recovering quite well. His face was fuller and not as boney; his arms had shown part of their strength again. When he stood his ribs did not fully show themselves, and neither when he sat. Arthur was recovering indeed, but still he was quite skinny and weak. His shaking, boney hands proved that much.

Francis took a seat beside the messy, blond haired man who was staring at the screen intently. The information hypnotized him, and Francis couldn't tell if that was a good or bad thing.

"The Reformation," the news caster began, "is now getting serious support from relief teams and other survivors. At the moment it really looks like America may be able to rise again. That is, if the Reformation keeps at what they are doing. With time, they may even ask for assistance from countries that the United States once called '_close allies_'. These countries may include the United Kingdom, France, Japan, Canada, and maybe even Germany," Arthur's eye got wide. America, asking for help? Would that be possible? Would they ever be able to get to this point?, "However," she continued, "even with such good news, American citizens are still suffering. The Reformation is trying its best to go as quickly as possible with their intentions, in order to save a lot of people from such harsh conditions, but rebuilding a country takes a lot more work than one would think.

They are trying the best the can to get Americans out of their horrible situations. Even a year and a half later, people are still left without food, water or shelter. Most have been taken in, but some have yet to receive supplies even now. If the Reformation can hurry up with their task and begin to get the support of other nations, then they may just have money in order to begin to rebuild, fueling some new American growth. Starting to rebuild would supply Americans with jobs and money, and with the money coming in from their new allies, if everything goes as they have planned, they will also be able to supply people with their basic needs. Food and water would be flown in for the civilians, and their shelters would be upgraded as the rebuilding continues. Once a city is rebuilt completely, they then can move into new homes and can find at least some way of returning to a '_normal life'_.

So far, things are looking up for America, even in such ugly circumstances. In a few years, who knows where they will be at. Will we see a '_New United States'_ out of this crisis? Or will the country we once called the World Power be no more? Only time will answer our questions, and the willingness and readiness of our leaders to show support."

Arthur said nothing as Francis turned off the T.V. He only continued to stare at it with great interest. America. . . Was. . . Going to be okay? Would it really recover? Would it? But even if it did. . . It wouldn't be the same. . . It wouldn't be Alfred. . . Not this time. . . Arthur bit his lip at his thoughts and turned his face from Francis, trying to keep his tears hidden. Oh God, why did Alfred have to die? Why, damn it why?! Why. . ?

When Arthur had gotten stronger and began wanting to eat again, Francis decided he might be able to take his leave. Arthur knew not to sleep all the time now and made a conscious effort himself to stay awake for longer. He was recovering quite well, the Frenchman thought. So, Francis left Arthur's home and hoped for the best. Maybe he wouldn't digress, and actually be able to get over this.

After a few weeks of being on his own, Arthur still had not been having the best thoughts. Memories of Alfred haunted him and he didn't know what to do. For the longest times he would force himself not to sleep, knowing that if he did he might get caught up in the dreams again. Eating was also on his mind a lot. To eat. He must eat. He can't go without food. He had to eat. At one point though, Arthur had a full mental break down. His mind was almost in a complete haze and he couldn't think of anything else besides not sleeping and eating. Francis had hoped for the best. . . But it seemed as though things now were breaking down again, just this time on the opposite end.

"Don't sleep. Don't sleep. You can't sleep," Arthur chanted to himself, stumbling around his kitchen like a zombie. He let out a loud, crazy laugh, "Don't sleep, Arthur! Ahahaha! You can't bloody sleep!"

It had already been four days that he had kept himself awake, using different techniques of how to go about doing so. He was driving his mind insane with such lack of sleep. No wonder he seemed like a mad man at the moment. He was going crazy, trying to keep himself up like this. But he told himself he couldn't sleep, he thought that if he did he would get sucked back up into things. In his head, he actually thought he was helping himself. He thought that this was a good thing, that he was doing what was needed; what would fix him.

Right now he was about at his limit; he wouldn't be able to stay awake much longer and he was almost ready to crash. The Englishman stumbled around his kitchen, running into the counters and smashing his head up against the cabinets. He didn't even have a good since of direction at the moment. He was falling all over the place, and he was totally distraught.

Food sat around the room in almost no order. For the past few days he had been forcing himself to eat, and eat, and eat, just pulling out anything he could find. Was this his way of keeping his mind off Alfred now? Was that it? Or was he just going insane trying to find a way to get this pain to go away? The food laid around everywhere and right now he was reaching for almost anything again. He didn't know what to do, he didn't. He was lost in his mind, tired, upset. He was tired. So damn tired, but he wouldn't sleep. He wouldn't. He couldn't. He couldn't let himself sleep. Not scared that that sleep addiction would creep up on him again.

"Ahahaha!" Arthur laughed, swaying around the kitchen and shoving different things into his mouth. He coughed and then began breathing heavily, "Nope! You can't sleep. Don't sleep, Arthur! Don't do it! Ahahaha! Sleep won't help you now! Ahhh!" he spun around and shoved some more into his mouth and then coughed again, "You have to eat. Eat it. You can't go without food. . . You can't. . . You must eat! Hahahahahahahahahahaaaaa!"

He let out a loud laugh and then suddenly fell forward onto his counter top. Jumping up he shook his head quickly and laughed again, coughing more. He leaned up against the counter, facing the kitchen island. Breathing heavily he stared at the food that sat on top of it with droopy, tired, glazed eyes. Oh God, he was so tired. . . So very tired. But he couldn't sleep! No! Sleeping! What a horrible thought! Sleeping! What would he do?! Sleeping was bad! He couldn't! No! He couldn't allow such a thing! He wouldn't! Impossible! He must not! He mustn't! No! Sleep can't come for him! It can't! It just can't! No! Not yet! No! No! No! Don't take him over! Don't! He can't! He can't let himself fall asleep! He can't dream! No! He can't dream! Not about Alfred! Not about him! No!

Arthur's eyes drooped closed, but he forced them open time after time. He held himself firmly up against the counter and did not let himself slip. He didn't allow his knees to give out on him. He wouldn't. But minute after minute his mental stability slowly drained. Faster and faster it went, on and on and on. . . He couldn't keep this up much longer.

"Do not. . . Sleep, Arthur," he said to himself, looking up at the island, "Eat. . . Eating. . . Yeah. . . You have to. You must. . . Don't. . . Sleep. Sleeping is not something to do. You can't, Arthur. . . Don't do it. Don't let yourself. But you _must_ eat. You must. You have to."

Arthur reached up and took some of the bread that was on the counter and shoved it into his mouth quickly. He had already eaten so much. So much. His stomach was about to explode from how much he was eating, he was full beyond full. How could his stomach take anymore of this? No matter, though. Arthur took no notice it seemed. His mind wasn't fully there. All he knew was that he needed to eat. Eat more and more and more. But if he ate much more. . .

He took another handful of bread, "You have to eat, damn it, Arthur! Eat, not sleep! Ahaha. . . Eat, damn it, eat!" he ate it and with quite a bit of difficulty, swallowed it, but as soon as he did so he felt his stomach turn and finally say enough. Enough was enough. It couldn't take this.

Suddenly, without any mental recognition, Arthur doubled over and vomited all over the floor. Over and over again he vomited. Bread, fruit, meat, any food he had had that day. All of it. All of it was now on the floor. By the time he stopped vomiting there was nothing left in his stomach. It was all gone. He was breathing heavily, and vomit trailed from his mouth. He took no thought of it; no thought of the vomit on his face or even on the floor. It was like it hadn't even happened. He didn't even notice.

Again, he reached for more bread, still breathing quite heavily, "You must eat. . . Arthur. Eat. You can't stop eating. . ." he shoved it into his mouth as he almost fell forward, "No!" he screamed, "Don't sleep! Do not sleep! Ahhh! God damn it, Arthur! _You can't sleep! Don't sleep_!" he took yet another piece of bread and shoved it into his mouth, "Don't. . . You. . . Mustn't. . ."

That was it. His limit was reached. He could no longer keep himself awake. It didn't even dawn on him that he was now slipping to the floor, slowly tipping over. He had lost all ability to stay awake. He fell to the floor, and suddenly the darkness of sleep overtook him. After four days of torturing himself, he was no longer able. No longer would he force himself awake. No longer. His body had won over to his mind, which had left him a few days ago, only the thoughts and motivations of not sleeping having kept him going. Now, neither his body nor his mind could keep him, for he was lost in sleep. Purely lost. . . Sleep, Arthur. Sleep now, no matter how badly you feel you shouldn't; sleep now.

Arthur shot up from his bed, breathing heavily. Alfred! Alfred! Where was he?! Why was he dead? Oh my God! Alfred! Please, no! He let out a shrike and began weeping, unable to control himself. What was he doing? Why? Oh God, why? Why? Alfred. . . Alfred! How could it-! No!

"Iggy?"

The voice came calmly from beside him, and in great shock Arthur quickly turned in its direction. That was Alfred's voice. That was Alfred's! As soon as he laid sight of the figure his crying choked up, and he was suddenly caught without the ability to move, speak, or even weep. He was shaking profusely and his heart had almost stopped. What. . . This. . . Couldn't. . . Was it really. . ?

"Iggy," Alfred said, walking to Arthur's bedside, "are you okay? What's wrong?" Arthur stared at him in shock, no words came from his mouth, only choked up sounds, "What happened?"

The Brit bit his lip, "A-Alfred. . ? A-are you. . ?" he stretched his trembling hand out towards the American, trying to reach him, "Is that. . . You? Are you really. . . Here? This. . . This isn't a dream is it? Is it? It can't be. . . Please. . . It's not. . . Is it?"

Alfred tilted his head then smiled softly, "What are you talking about, Iggy?" he took his former caretakers hand.

"A-Alfred. . . Is. . . Are you. . ." Arthur stared into the teens blue eyes, wanting to believe that this was all real, that he wasn't dreaming, that this was indeed reality, "This. . . Is this real? Are you. . . Are you really here? Please, Alfred. . . This is reality. . . Please tell me this is reality. . . It's not a dream, is it?"

"No, it's not a dream, Iggy," Alfred said, shaking his head, "I'm really here. Why? What happened? Are you okay? You look really scared."

"I. . . I. . ." Arthur couldn't speak, he was in to much shock.

The American took notice of Arthur's situation and feelings and moved himself closer, holding the Brit close to him. His strong hands held his friend's head to his shoulder and he stroked his hair lightly. Alfred hugged him tightly and had decided to make sure to comfort him.

"Iggy, why are you so scared? Why do you think this is a dream?"

Arthur wrapped his arms around Alfred and held onto him tightly, "You. . . You were gone. . . I. . . It was like. . . You were. . . Gone for a really. . . Really l-long time. . . It. . . Was h-horrible. . . I missed you. . . I missed you so much. . . I don't. . . I don't want that to be true. . . B-but you're here. . . You're here. . . And I. . . I don't. . . Don't leave me. . . Don't leave me alone, Alfred. . ."

Alfred closed his eyes, "I won't, Iggy. I won't," he let go of the Englishman and looked into his eyes, "But I do think you should sleep, okay? I'll still be here when you wake up. I'm not going anywhere," he smiled.

Arthur slowly began to lay down again, but as Alfred began walking away he shot back up again, "Wait! Alfred!"

The American quickly turned around and cocked his head, "Yeah? What's up?"

"I. . . Can you. . . Please. . . If this really isn't a dream. . . Will. . ." he bit his lip and closed his eyes, "Stay with me tonight. . ? Please. . . I don't want to lose you. . . I don't want to feel like your gone again. . . I just. . ."

Just then Alfred sat down on Arthur's bed and ruffled the older nations hair. He grinned, "Why not?"

Arthur stared at him in shock and then slowly he let himself fall back down onto the bed. Alfred followed and laid down beside him, then held him close, "I'm not gonna go anywhere, Iggy. I'll still be here in the morning. I promise. It's okay. I'm right here. I promise."

Slowly, Arthur could feel himself fading into sleep, but Alfred was here. Alfred was here. . . What was there to worry about? This was real. . . He wasn't dreaming. . . He couldn't be. . . He clung to Alfred, not willing to let him go, even when his eyes closed and he was no longer conscious. Alfred was here. . . This wasn't a dream. . . Alfred was here. . .

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><p><strong>HOLY FUDGE I UPDATED. WHAT IS THIS MADNESS? Haha, yeah. Sorry guys! I have up to chapter 18, but I totally lost all sight of this story a few months ago after that. I know where Im going with it, I just couldn't bring myself to update or write more. . . Though, I have to thank a recent review I got on my new one shot 'His Deepest Fears' for telling me that they really wanted me to update. I probably wouldn't be updating if it wasn't for that. I'm re-reading everything I wrote so I can figure out where to go again. <strong>

**I must just enjoy messing with Arthur. Really. Sometimes I wonder why I write the things I do. . . oh well.  
><strong>

****Again, I apologize for the lack of updates! ****


	8. Unfamiliar

Lately nothing passes lightly  
>A heavy hand is holding me down<br>A breeze is just an unfamiliar sound to me

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Lately nothing passes by me  
>And every hand is pulling me down<br>And praise is just an unfamiliar sound to me

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

All this meaningless direction  
>Feels like it pulls me away<br>It's hard to just forget what they say to me

Just close the door  
>(It's all coming back to me)<br>Be still, my heart  
>(It's all coming back)<p>

Just close the door  
>(It's all coming back to me)<br>Be still, my heart  
>('Cause it's all coming back)<p>

~ Unfamiliar – The Birthday Massacre

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><p>Slowly, Arthur opened his eyes. He groaned slightly and rubbed his eyes, "Alfred. . ? Alfred, I-" he looked around where he was sleeping. The kitchen counters towered over him and the smell of vomit trailed through the room. What. . ? Why was he in his kitchen? Why was there this nasty smell in the air? He was in his room last night with Alfred. Why was he here now? This wasn't right. This. . . This wasn't. . .<p>

He quickly jumped to his feet and looked around. Tears pricked the edges of his eyes as the memories from the previous night flooded back to him. No. No! No, damn it, no! How could this be right? No! No! No! _No_!

"Ahhhhhh!" Arthur let out a loud scream and fell to his knees, beginning to weep. No. . . It was supposed to be reality. . . It was supposed to be true... Alfred told him it was real! He said it was real, damn it! It wasn't supposed to be a dream! Alfred said he would be there when he woke up! He promised! He promised! Why?! Oh God, why?! _Why_?! Alfred promised he would be there! He was supposed to be here! He-! He was-! He. . . Alfred. . . Alfred was. . . Why. . ? Alfred. . . Why, Alfred? Why are you gone. . ? Why did you have to die? Why?

Having been sitting there quite a long time, Arthur finally decided to make it to his feet. He stumbled as he got up, using the counter as a brace. Why did his mind play tricks on him? Arthur stared out into nothingness, his mind racing with such thoughts. He didn't understand. His heart hurt s_o much_. It was so bad that he almost couldn't even breath. He missed Alfred, he missed him. . . The feeling in his stomach was horrid. It stretched from his gut to his heart and suffocated him. Oh, God. . . Oh, God. . .

Arthur crept his way over to the sink, slowly pulling a knife into his hand again. He stared at it with shaking limbs, just thinking of all the ways it could help him. . . How the pain could help him. . . How it could atone for all he had done. . . Slowly, he pulled the knife across his skin, blood flowing from his wrist. Almost automatically his mind was shrouded in thoughts; in memories; in regrets. Oh, how could he have said such things to Alfred? How could he have kept so much from him? How could he have acted like he _hated_ him? How. . . Could he have hurt him like that?

The more he cut through his skin, the more he mumbled to himself; whispering to himself; chanting to himself, "Alfred. . . Alfred. . . I'm sorry. . . It's all my fault. . . It was my fault. . . I should be the one dead. . . You shouldn't be gone. . . Not you. . . I'm sorry. . . How can I fix what I've done. . ? I can't fix it. . . I never can. . . Please. . . Forgive me. . . Forgive me. . . Alfred. . . My little brother. . . Please. . . Please. . . I'm such a fool. . . I'm sorry. . . I'm so sorry. . . How do I. . . Atone for my sin? I hurt you. . . Please. . . Forgive me. . . Forgive me. . . _Forgive me._ . ."

Hour after hour went by, the day growing farthing into the afternoon, and all this time the rain poured down. The fog covered the windows and surrounded London, just like every other day. . . But today was eery. . . Silent. . . Hidden. Hidden in shame; in regret; in memories; in pain; in sorrow; in heartache; in suffocation. . . It was lost, just like Arthur. Lost in time; lost in pain; lost in recollection. Lost. Lost in it all. . . All at once. . .

He could have bleed to death from how much he was cutting himself, but his abilities as a country kept him from doing such things; of dieing so easily. Within minutes, a cut that had sliced open his vain would close, not fully; not completely, but enough to keep the blood flowing through his body. Hours and hours and hours and hours and hours. . . Arthur had fully lost himself there; in the cutting; in what seemed to be his only escape now, his one and only escape. . . Was there any other way out? Was there any other way to pay for what he had done? The crimes he had committed on Alfred's soul? His heart? His mind? The tricks he played on his closest friend? God damn it, Arthur played tricks on him! Mind tricks! Horrible, horrible mind tricks! How could he ever make up for that? How could he ever pay for it. . ?

When Arthur finally came to once more; when his mind finally came back to him, he slowly set down the knife. His body was trembling out of hate; hate at himself. How he hated himself now! He made himself _sick_. What type of person was he? A horrible, horrible person. . . _Horrible_. Absolutely horrible. He bit his lip as tears began to run down his cheeks, until finally he couldn't hold it in any longer. Arthur broke down in sobs and slowly he fell to the floor, holding himself there. Weeping; crying; sobbing. . . He couldn't move. He wouldn't move. . . And for the longest time he sat there and cried, and cried, and cried, and cried, until he cried himself to sleep. . .

For weeks, even months later, Arthur had no idea what he was doing. His mind was so lost in the memories and regret that he had no motivation to do anything. Insomnia had taken over his sleep, and no matter how hard he tried to close his eyes and fade into the unconscious he could never do so. Instead, to bide his time, and without much thought on the matter, he took to eating thinking that he should do so. The only thing he really even thought of was Alfred and how much he missed him. There was so much he _could_ do, but so little he wanted to do. He just wanted to sit there, doing nothing. . . Nothing. . . For the longest time. The only thing that kept him occupied, and he didn't even realize it, was eating.

He ate very often now. Francis had told him to eat more, and maybe in his mind this wasn't anything bad, maybe he though he was helping himself. Maybe he had even unconsciously caused his own insomnia, but the fact of the matter was that it had gotten out of hand. Though, Arthur didn't see that. He couldn't see that. He didn't even know anything was wrong. If this kept up. . .

As the depression kept creeping up on him, everyday growing stronger and stronger, Arthur's habits grew worse. He didn't think about what he was doing. Not one bit. After a while of eating so often, and so much, not even his body, which had been weak and twig like only a few months before, knew what to do. It wasn't that Arthur was in _bad_ shape, at least not when it came to his own personal needs such as hygiene, food, or water, but more the fact that he was unable to see what he was doing. He was unable to noticing that he was over eating, and that he wasn't sleeping enough. It was like the whole form of his depression had flipped and now it was the exact opposite of what it had been. An insomniac who fills his lack of willingness with food. . .

It seemed almost impossible that Arthur did not see what he was doing, but in fact it was. Every morning, when he woke from his few hours, or no hours of sleep at all, he took a shower, just like he usually would. During that time he passed in front of a mirror many, many times, but not once did he look at himself and take a second glance. Nothing seemed to be out of place to him. Nothing at all. It was as if life had gone on being normal again, even though he still felt like absolute shit. Sometimes he would even go to meetings, but no one pointed out a difference in him. Not one person. Had it been because of what the Prime Minister had told them when he checked up on Arthur last? Or did all of them figure it was because of what happened to America?

Sometimes the feelings within himself grew so bad that he reverted back to cutting again. Somedays he spent hours just trying to atone for the things he had done, hoping, begging that cutting himself like he was would make up for it. He was trying to make himself feel better, trying to make all the pain inside himself go away, and for awhile. . . At least, maybe a few seconds; a few minutes; it did. The pain went away. If only for such a small amount of time. If only for such a small amount of time he felt better. . .

No matter how many times he looked at himself, no matter how many times he passed in front of that mirror every morning, nothing seemed off to him. In his eyes, he looked normal, like he did everyday. A strong man with no physical issues; one who was in shape with nothing to worry about; one who knew how to use his fists if ever needed. Though, thats not what the mirror saw. The mirror reflected an image that was much, much different. How couldn't Arthur have known that he had not only gained his own wight back, but now had gone beyond that? He couldn't he have know? How couldn't he have seen? How much worse would it have to get for him to notice that something wasn't right with himself? How much more would he have to gain? Just how much?

Sometime in the long, drawn out weeks of nothing, Arthur had gotten a call from Francis. It had seemed that he wanted to speak with both the Englishman and their close Canadian friend, Matthew. However, it took Francis quite the time to explain exactly _why_ he called for this three-way, personal meeting _and_ why he wanted to have it take place _London_ of all places. If Francis was the one hosting it, why did he have it in England and not France?

The only excuse that was told to Arthur was that England was in between France and Canada, but that of course was a pretty big lie. Arthur knew that couldn't have been it. Francis was probably still worried about him, though why should he be? Arthur was just fine, at least thats what he thought. No matter though, Arthur agreed to meet. The meeting seemed to be about the situation in America and how they wanted their governments to work with the situation, because Francis felt like all three of them wished to help. So, the best thing to do would be to discus it between them, right?

Francis had chosen a private building, one that wasn't the Englishman's house, feeling the Brit may have felt like he was being intruded on much to often lately. The building was somewhere on the outskirts of London, away from almost anything else. For some reason, it was a decent middle class home. . . Arthur seemed to have been the last of the three to get there, even though he lived in London. For some reason the two got there before him though. Odd. He walked inside, finding the other two sitting at a table in what seemed to be the dinning room of the home.

"Hello?" Arthur said, walking farther into the room and trying to get the others attention.

Both quickly looked behind them. For some reason, Matthew looked like he had just seen a ghost, and Francis stared at him in awe.

"_Angleterre_!" Francis shouted, jumping up from his seat and running over to the Brit, "What happened to you⁈"

Arthur raised an eyebrow, "What?"

"What do you mean '_what_'?" Francis asked, giving the Brit quite a worried look, "Haven't you seen yourself recently?"

Arthur glared at him and moved to his seat, "Yes, and I have no idea what you are concerned about."

"Arthur!" Matthew said, standing up from his seat as Arthur sat down, "How do you not notice this? Do you not care?"

Francis went back to his seat and eyed Arthur curiously as he pulled lightly on Matthew's arm to tell him to sit, "_Angleterre_. . . You don't notice anything off? Anything weird?"

The Brit rolled his eyes, "No. Stop acting like there is."

"But there _is_ something wrong, Arthur," Matthew pleaded. He too was still having a hard time with Alfred's death, and seeing Arthur in such shape was killing him. Francis had told him things about what Arthur had done to himself, and he couldn't believe some of it. This whole death thing, it was even worse when it was another country. No one took the time to ask Matthew how he felt about it, besides Francis, but he too was trying his best to fight off depression. So, seeing Arthur like this, so wrapped up in it, was extremely difficult. If Arthur gave into it, why couldn't he. . ? No. He wouldn't. Arthur had it much worse then he did, and he needed to keep his mind thinking straight in order to help all of them. But if he got aggravated at Arthur, it wasn't his fault. . . Was it? Because he could feel himself getting angry at him. So very angry.

"And what the bloody hell is wrong with me then⁈" Arthur yelled, getting annoyed at these two men who were treating him as though he couldn't do anything right anymore. No matter how hard he tried they all just thought he was a failure in fixing himself.

Matthew quickly stood up, bitting his lip in anger. Francis placed a hand on the Canadian's shoulder and gazed up at him, slowly shaking his head '_no_'. The force on his hand told the teenager to sit down, to be calm and let his former, and first, caretaker handle it.

"_Angleterre_. . ." Francis began, trying to keep his sad eyes on Arthur's face rather than his body, "Have you even noticed that those clothes don't fit you?"

Arthur scoffed, "Of course they don't, Frog. Of course they don't."

The Frenchman sighed and shook his head, "_Pensez-vous honnêtement tout simplement pas voir il, Angleterre?(_Do you honestly just not see it, Angleterre?)"

"I don't know what the bloody hell you're talking about."

"You honestly can't see that you've gained weight⁈ You've put on at least twenty pounds!" Matthew shouted, trying to clam himself down. He didn't get angry often, but this situation was hard to deal with. He didn't exactly know what to do. How was he supposed to deal with his so called 'step-father' doing such things to himself?

The Englishman raised an eyebrow, "Gained weight?" he let out a laugh, "Of course, of course. I see how this is. So be it. I don't give two shits what you two '_see_', because you obviously are seeing things that are not true."

"How can you defend this with such things?" Francis asked, obviously trying to understand Arthur's meaning behind his last words, "You have gained weight, Arthur! Matthew and I are just concerned about what you are doing to yourself and as to why you have gained so much. You usually wouldn't have even thought of gaining weight like this. . ."

"You bloody gits!" Arthur yelled and jumped up from his seat, now fed up with their insolence, "There is nothing wrong with me! I haven't gained any such weight nor have I _thought_ of doing so! What makes you think I _wanted_ to if I have⁈"

That was it. Who cared if this meeting was meant to discuss important government agreements between them, Arthur was done with their shit. He stomped out of the room and slammed the front door loudly behind him. How dare they accuse him of such things. Things that he in all of his right mind would never think of doing! Why would anyone want to gain weight⁈ Beside, he hadn't. Of course he hadn't. Why would he have? What the bloody hell were they thinking? Or seeing for that matter! His clothes? They don't fit him? What was Francis's issue? Of course they did! If they didn't Arthur would have noticed by now! He was sure of it!

No matter how much he tried to reassure himself of his standings, of how he was right in this, he couldn't help but be worried that what they had said might be true. For some reason, no mater how sure of himself he was, their concern lead him to be weary of himself. He was okay. He was fine. What did he have to change? He had been fine for the past few months, what changed that? Or. . . Were they right? Were they? Was he the one seeing things? No. They couldn't have been right. They couldn't. It was a lie. Why would he do that to himself? Again and again he told himself he was right; he was fine; there was nothing wrong, but all the while something was edging at him to check, to make sure, to know for a fact that he was indeed right. Because, no matter how much he didn't want to admit it, something inside himself said something was wrong. Something knew; his body knew; even if his eyes didn't see.

Soon he found himself back at his home. It hadn't taken him long to get there, not long at all. Quickly, he entered his house, and even though he didn't think the two had been right, his legs carried him all the way back to his bathroom. Honestly, he wanted to keep on believing that nothing was wrong, because he should be able to tell if he was overweight or not. So, why couldn't he? He honestly could not see anything wrong. He look perfectly fine when he looked into the mirror. There was no extra weight. None at all. . . Why couldn't he see it? Why? It made no since to him, and something kept bugging him to check. It was as if someone, or something, was poking him constantly in order to get him to do so, and every second they poked him harder and harder, until it felt like there was a bruise on his insides. It wouldn't leave him be. Not until he knew for sure.

Arthur quickly made his way into the bathroom and pulled out the scale. He stared at it for a few seconds, not knowing exactly what to do. This seemed almost exactly like half a year ago. . . When he stared at that scale; scared to see what numbers it would yield. What would it tell him? Would it show what he wanted? Or will it tell what Francis and Mathew had been trying to all along? He was scared, but also anxious to see what would turn out. Just like half a year ago, he stared at it, scared to see his weight. Though this time it wasn't fear of the numbers being deadly low, but rather that those numbers would turn out to be high; to show him he had in fact managed to switch sides dramatically. If that was the case. . . What the hell was he doing to his body? How was his body able to handle such a huge change in such a short time?

He took a deep breath and then stepped onto the scale. This time he looked directly at the number, his eyes not wavering one bit. One hundred eighty-one pounds (Eighty-two kilograms). One hundred eighty-one. . . Francis and Matthew weren't lying. . . They weren't. . . How didn't he notice this? Why didn't he? Not once did he look as though he had gained. . . So if this was true, why weren't his eyes able to see it? Why?

Arthur took a look in the mirror again. For the first time in quite a long time he saw how he really looked. Indeed, Francis was not making anything up, nor was Mathew. All the things they said were true. He _had_ gained weight. Plenty of it. His clothes didn't fit him, just like Francis had pointed out and Arthur didn't believe. They didn't fit and were quite stretched rather than fitting how they should. He had gained weight, and now he was overweight. A while ago he realized that he had been more tired than usual. . . Now he knew the reason. Even part of his stomach was showing because his shirt didn't fully cover him. Oh, God, what had he done to himself?

But. . . Hadn't he accused Alfred of looking this way so many times? Hadn't he made fun of him; hurt him; abused him by telling him he was fat? By telling him he was overweight; fat; out of shape; and _fat_? Had he not done such things? Because if he recalled. . . He called Alfred that to many times to count. . . Way to many times. Just another thing to add onto the list of things he had to fix, but never could. He had to fix it. . . He had to make up for it. He _had_ to. He wouldn't be able to live knowing that he would never be able to do so. . . But he couldn't fix it! He _couldn't_! He _never_ could! Ever!

Wait. . . What. . . Would he be able to fix this? Maybe. . . This. . . Could. . . Maybe he could. Maybe. . .

He had already started down this path, so why couldn't he finish it? Why couldn't he go farther? If he did this; if he did it on purpose; if he gained weight on purpose, would it be able to at least make up for a little bit of it? It wouldn't ever be enough to fully fix it, not ever, but at least. . . At least there would be some way to at least change it a little. For every time he had called Alfred fat; for every time he had made fun of Alfred's eating habits; for all those times he should gain the weight he accused Alfred of. He could make up for it. He could. He _could_! He could _fix_ it! Yes! _Yes_!

If he did this; if he gained all this weight he could make up for it! Yes, he would be able to feel better about himself! He wouldn't regret this as much. He wouldn't. He would be able to sleep, he would be able to think and know that he did something right to pay for all those things he had said to Alfred. Even if it was just one part of all the horrible, horrible things he had done to him, this one area would be paid for. He would pay for it. He would. It would all be okay, only if he did this. Only if he gained all the weight for all the times he had accused Alfred of it. That was the only way. The one and only way. . .

The thought passed through Arthur's mind for at least a few minutes, and finally the idea took root. He didn't care what other people thought, he was going to go through with it. But part of him still seemed to be uneasy about it. . . Why? Why did part of him say no? It had to be done, and he had to force all of himself into it.

He snickered, and keeping his head down he placed a hand on the mirror, right over the reflection of his face. When his eyes looked up, he didn't move his head at all, only his eyes stared into his own sorrowful eyes, glazed over in an odd, eerie form of happiness. What type of joy was this? He had never seen such an emotion before; not in his eyes. It sort of reminded him of his pirate days. . . That look he used to get. . . Though, at that time it was an evil, drunken happiness. Oh, such enjoyment did he find in raiding, burning and looting all those ships. How much fun had he had striking fear into all who sailed that Atlantic sea. Yes, this look in his eyes, this emotion, it was similar, but not quite the same. It was as though his old, pirate mindset had come back to him; as though he had just stolen all the life from an enemy ship and he was watching it burn and sink back into the sea.

But this wasn't totally the emotion he held. He was angry at himself, but at the same time proud. The idea of sinking that ship and watching it burn; that pride; that feeling of accomplishment; oh yes, that was in his eyes, but that something else that was there. . . Sadness. _Sadness_. Sorrow filled his eyes. The sorrow that he held from the very beginning of all this, it was still there, and it would always be there until he did something about it. Arthur missed him. . . He still would, no matter how much he tried to fix things, or how much he thought he could fix things. That sorrow would never leave. _Never_. But even so, he was going to go through with his plan. He wasn't backing out. . . He had already begun.

He looked up at himself, up into those eyes, and let a strange smile crawl onto his lips as he snickered, "You _have_ to do this, Arthur," his voice was somewhere between a whisper and a bellow, causing a creepy residence in the house as he began saying things as though he was trying to suppress a laugh, "It will pay for all those things you've said to him~! It will pay! If you do this everything will be okay. Things will be fine and you'll feel better. You'll make it up to Alfred! That's your goal. To fix things. How many times have you hurt him with such names? Oh, way to many to count if I recall. . . In the past sixty, seventy years. . . How many times have you called him fat? Or misshapen? Or overweight? Or fat arse? How many times? Once? Twice? Ha! Way more then that, you bloody fool. Fifty times? A hundred times? Two hundred? Four? Six? Haha. . . For every time you've called him such things. . . To make it up to him shouldn't you take on what you accused him of? Yes. . . You should do that. . . It's how you will fix things. . . It's the only way to fix things. . . You'll make it up to him. . . You'll make it up. . . That's your goal. . . To make it up to him. . . That's what you're doing. . . That's what I'm doing. . ."

Just like that, in a matter of minutes, Arthur's whole goal and way of life for the moment changed. After he talked to himself like that, that place inside him that was uneasy before seemed to have disappeared. Had he convinced it? Had he? It seemed so, because nothing held him back anymore. Nothing. There was nothing there telling him no, and he took no thought about it any longer. From that moment he began his plan. He began throwing himself into all that he was doing. Arthur's main goal now: _'gain all the weight you can, as fast as you can, all of it to pay for your crimes against Alfred.'_ That was his goal, and that's what he would do.

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><p><strong>Whoo! I have updated once again! This next part will hopefully pass rather quickly and we'll soon get to other things.<strong>


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